


Thief of Hearts

by justanothersong



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Burglary, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, F/M, Female Friendship, Fluff, Mild Angst, Opposites Attract, POV Female Character, Plot, Pop Culture, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 58,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7396690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Natasha shook her head, the faintest impression of a smirk on her lips. “Why is it you always show up bleeding?” she asked.</i>
</p><p>After a burglary gone bad leaves the reader wounded, she seeks out an old friend for help and finds herself facing recovery alongside a team of superheroes, catching the eye of a certain Captain in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your first meeting with Steve Rogers is not exactly an inauspicious occasion, as you were slowly bleeding out from two shots to your shoulder when you stumbled into him in the lobby of Stark Tower. He turned to apologize and taking one look at your pale, pained face reached out to steady you on your feet.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” he asked. He couldn’t see the wounds or the blood; you’d clutched your leather jacket around yourself and the black fabric of your jeans hid the constant flow fairly well. 

You were shivering as you spoke. “No, I’m fine, thanks,” you said quickly. “I just… need to get to the elevator, if you could…”

By then he knew for certain you were injured and kept his arm around you to steady you on your feet; you couldn’t help the way you shifted your weight against him, feeling too heavy on your own feet as you tried to make it to safety.

“I think we need to get you to a hospital,” he responded.

“We can’t do that, Steve,” a new voice interrupted, and you smiled gratefully to see Natasha walk up behind him. She took one look at you and quickly stepped beside you, to offer support to keep you standing. “We need to get her upstairs. Now.”

You took maybe two steps towards the elevator before your knees began to buckle; the last thing you recalled before you fell into the haze of unconsciousness was being swept up into a pair of strong, solid arms.

 

You woke to the scent of of antiseptic, something cool and clean like alcohol or iodine. There was a soft hum and thrum of machinery in the air, and you had a feeling of lightness with only an inkling of pain that seemed far off and dull. Your eyes felt heavy, too heavy to open, but you could hear voices around you and you were content to listen for a while.

“... it’s one thing to get stitched up, but this was basically surgery,” a male voice spoke. The heady timbre was familiar but not; you let the words drift through your mind for a moment, trying to remember.

“Good point,” a female voice responded. “You should bring it up to Tony. He’ll have an operating suite installed.” The was humor there, a hint of sarcasm. You knew that voice immediately: Natasha.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” the male voice responded, and you remembered. Tall. Blonde. Built solid and strong; he hadn’t seemed even to break a sweat when he swept you into his arms. “Why couldn’t we just get her to a hospital?”

“I don’t have insurance,” you spoke up dryly, voice rough and throat sore. You opened your eyes to see your old friend and her studly companion looking back at you in surprise. You squinted, the lights above you a bit bright for you after having been out for the count for so long.

Natasha shook her head, the faintest impression of a smirk on her lips. “Why is it you always show up bleeding?” she asked. You grinned, perhaps a little too wide, thanks to the drugs steadily pumping into your system through the IV in your hand.

“I suppose the splash of red always calls to mind my sweet _kotyonok_ ,” you respond, and Natasha huffed a rare low laugh. The man at her side looked surprised, if not a little puzzled by the exchange.

“How are you feeling, ma’am?” he asked, face all drawn and serious.

“Better than when I came in. Thanks for the lift, by the way,” you told him, and gripped the bed’s guardrails in an attempt to sit up with a groan.

“No, wait…!” he began, words crossing midstream with Natasha sharply saying your name to stop you. It does give you pause and you let go, leaning back into the mattress; you’d barely managed to move yourself an inch or two anyway before your injured shoulder began screaming. The tearing pain in your hand at the same movement drew to your attention the IV there, taped in place. 

“Just lie still,” the man advised. “The doctors want you to keep that shoulder immobilized for a while. The bullets did a lot more damage than they initially thought.”

You sighed and scrubbed the hand of your uninjured arm over your face. “How bad are we talking? Nat? How long am I sidelined?”

The redhead stepped closer and gripped a hand on the side-rail of the bed. “The first one was through-and-through, but the second stuck,” she told you. “Soft tissue and joint damage. A few weeks in a sling and then some therapy. A couple of months, minimal.”

You groaned. “Damn it!” you said, eyes squeezed shut and head lolling on the flattened pillow. “This sucks.”

Natasha seemed to suppress a small smile. “At least we’ll have a nice long visit.”

“Hell yeah we will!” a new voice interrupted, and you peeked your eyes open to see a familiar face sidle up to the foot of your bed. He reached out and squeezed your toes beneath the soft hospital-issue blanket they had you wrapped in. “Hey, kiddo.”

You snorted. “Clint, you’re not all that much older than me.”

“But I am older,” he pointed out, and waggled a finger in your direction. “Respect your elders. So respect the hell outta Cap, there, cos he’s older than everybody’s granny, and then some.”

You rolled your head on the pillow again, aware suddenly of the how hazy the world was starting to look, soft and blurry around the edges. You glanced up at the man who had carried you into the elevator, and grinned.

“Hi Cap,” you said with a soft laugh, reaching with your free hand to touch his sleeve.

He smiled back, even chuckled. “Hi there,” he said. “I think that morphine drip they set you up with is starting to kick in, huh?”

“Yeahhhh I’d say so,” you agreed, nodding your head. “Hey Clint, they’re giving me the good drugs!”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “How did we even get the good drugs in this place?”

“Tony had people on staff able to pull a bullet out of her shoulder joint,” Natasha pointed out quietly. “Do you really think he can’t get opiates here on demand?”

You laughed again, more to yourself than anyone else. “My life is so strange,” you intoned to the Captain, who was watching you with no small amount of interest. “But at least I get the good drugs.”

He smiled. “You should try and get some rest, ma’am,” he told you, clearly trying not to laugh. “You could use it after the day you’ve had.”

You offer a soft hum in agreement and close your eyes, slipping away into the nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

The Tower’s namesake and chief destructive scientist was kind enough to offer you a place to stay, and care for your recovery. It was a rare thing, to be allowed into the inner circle of those who lived and worked at Stark Tower, but Natasha had insisted that you could be trusted. Having the Black Widow vouch for you went a long way, it would seem; Tony offered you a small suite of rooms for your stay and care for your injuries in the medical bay at the Tower. 

Your first few days in residence were primarily spent sleeping; even after you were deemed well enough to sleep in a real bed and lose the IV drip, you were still prescribed fairly heavy painkillers, as well as muscle relaxants to keep you from tossing and turning too much. Two full weeks passed before you were able to venture out into the common areas on the private floors of the Tower.

Much was as you would have expected: a shared workout space, a small communal kitchen, and dining and lounge areas. While the suite that Tony had been kind enough to lend you had it’s own lounge space, it was nice to be outside of your own four walls and you took to spending a good deal of time in the lounge area.

Your shoulder was still quite tender, requiring regular pain medication and an immobilizing sling for at least a few more weeks. The joint itself was left uncovered, but your forearm was held in stabilizing canvas sleeve against your abdomen to keep you from moving the shoulder at all. It was uncomfortable, but the doctors that Tony employed had warned you that any further injury during the healing process could keep you from regaining full function of the joint. That would be a disaster, so you did your best to follow doctor’s orders.

It had been particularly quiet for a good number of days; Natasha had been kind enough to warn you before she and her superhero compatriots left on an extended mission, leaving you spending much time alone in the Tower. You didn’t mind much, having stumbled upon a book series that you rather enjoyed and breezing through them one by one on a loaned StarkPad.

You hadn’t even realized they had returned until a familiar voice interrupted your reading. You glanced up from where you sat on a large couch, somewhat splayed in position due to your injury; you had to be careful how you sat to ensure that you’d be able to rise again without using your bad shoulder.

“Good book?” the Captain asked, taking a seat on a couch just adjacent to yours.

You smiled in greeting. “An interesting one,” you agreed with a nod. “Medical mystery. Seemed fitting.”

He smiled in return, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes drifted towards your bandaged shoulder; the injury was made all the more obvious with the sling you were forced to wear, and the way you wore your black leather jacket slung over your shoulders, since you couldn’t slide both arms into the sleeves. It was the only piece of your own clothing that had survived your first day at the Tower, the rest too stained from blood loss. Thankfully Natasha was of a similar size and had lent you the basics while you ordered new from a website and had it shipped. Your jacket, in spite of the blood, you refused to part with; it had taken a lot of work but you’d managed to get the lining mostly clean.

“Are you ever going to tell us what happened to you?” he prodded gently. You could understand the curiosity -- you’d kept your lips sealed on the circumstance of your arrival, in spite of a good deal of curiosity among the other Tower residents.

You fixed him with your brightest smile. “I was shot, Captain,” you teased. “Surely you’re acquainted with what that looks like.”

Steve snorted and shook his head. “Fine, have it your way,” he said amiably. He gestured towards the large flat-screen television on the wall and asked, “You mind?”

You shook your head, eyes flicking back to the open ebook on the tablet in your hands. The noise wouldn’t bother you; besides, it would be interesting to see what would draw his attention. Spending so much time in the lounge, you’d found yourself oddly intrigued by seeing what would capture the interest of Natasha’s cohorts. 

Clint was all about action movies, even better if they had a particularly snarky protagonist popping off one-liners while escaping the bad guys. The mild-mannered Dr. Banner seemed to enjoy nature documentaries, though you did find him laughing helplessly at syndicated sitcoms on more than one occasion, and flipping to an old Hollywood classic now and again. Tony was all about tech -- no surprise there -- and would spend ages watching episode after episode of _How It’s Made_ or _Unwrapped_ ; he also seemed to have a fondness for noir drama, which surprised you. He’d been appalled that you’d never seen _The Maltese Falcon _and made you watch it with him, offering bits of trivia about the actors and the novel it was based on throughout.__

__Natasha shared Tony’s love for classic film, but was more inclined towards watching comedies and adventure films; you weren’t terribly surprised at her fondness for Errol Flynn’s _Robin Hood_ , and when you turned to say as much, you found yourself fixed with a death-glare that dared you to say a word. You knew better than to tease. _ _

__Occasionally the redhead would go on a historic documentary bender, often with the Captain’s steely-armed friend Bucky watching with her in rapt silence. On his own, the former Winter Soldier had taken to mafia films and anything with De Niro or Pacino; you suggested he track down the saga edit of the _Godfather_ films, and he had loved it. Sam, the Tower’s other occasional resident with an avian namesake alter ego, enjoyed police procedurals, particularly the quirky ones, and would often have on a rerun of _Criminal Minds_ or _Elementary_._ _

__Steve seemed more private, and his free time didn’t often find him in front of a television set. The quiet of the afternoon must have drawn him in. You were slightly disappointed to see that he had only tuned in for the local news; you were even less pleased to see the top story for the afternoon._ _

__“Self-help guru Augustus Winslow has announced a reward for information leading to the recovery of items stolen in a daring theft some weeks ago,” the newscaster intoned, a dark-haired woman with lipstick a shade too orange for her complexion and eyes that seemed less than enthusiastic with what she was reading._ _

__“Among items stolen from Winslow’s Carlton Hotel suite was a necklace containing the famous Star of Eternity diamond, valued at more than a million dollars. Combined with the other stones, the necklace itself is said to be worth at least two and half million. The current reward for its return is set at $50,000…”_ _

__The newscast switched to an image of the gem, both in and out of the necklace setting. The diamond itself was pear-shaped and bright vivid blue, quite large for its color; for the setting, it had been surrounded by smaller round white diamonds set on a chain of the same._ _

__Steve let out a low whistle. “Can you imagine someone just wearing that around?” he asked._ _

__You snorted. “It’s gaudy as hell,” you countered. “People buy and sell stones like that for the status, nothing else.”_ _

__You paused, reaching into a hidden inner pocket on your jacket, and pulled out the necklace. Thankfully, the cloth it was wrapped in and its placement in the breast of your jacket had kept it from any damage during your escape and the ensuing bleed-out._ _

__“Still,” you mused, holding up the necklace and allowing the gems to catch the afternoon sun. “It is awful pretty.”_ _

__Steve turned to glance at you, half a smile on his face and no doubt ready to make some joke in response, but his eyes caught the glint of light on the massive diamond and nearly bugged out of his head._ _


	3. Chapter 3

You felt vaguely like a teenager caught sneaking home late on a school night. Steve had of course rallied the troops and they had sat you down at the table in the communal kitchen and were taking turns ranting back and forth about you. Tony, Natasha, and Clint had joined the super-soldier in telling you off over the incident. Though on some level you understood the concern -- you had brought very valuable stolen goods into the Tower -- it did feel like a bit much.

“You brought a thief here?” Tony thundered at Natasha.

The redhead shrugged, completely nonplussed. “She came in on her own,” she pointed out.

“Bleeding out in the lobby,” Steve pointed out, and turned to face you. He had all the airs of an angry dad, frowning down at you at the table with his arms crossed over his chest. The illusion suffered, however, by virtue of his presented youth. You thought he looked a bit ridiculous, six feet of nannying rage in a grey t-shirt and black track pants, his chosen outfit for lazy days at the tower.

“And yet I survived intact, thanks to you and Nat,” you responded, and winked at him. He seemed taken aback for a moment, unsure of how to react, before resuming his frown.

“You could have died!” he told you, hands reaching to grip the back of a chair. “And for what?”

“Exactly,” you told him. “And isn’t that the bigger issue here? That someone values compressed carbon in a pretty form over a human life.” Natasha snorted, but said nothing.

“A thief!” Tony continued ranting, squaring his shoulders to glare at Natasha. “Do you have any idea how much cool stuff I have?”

Clint, who had been silent, turned a free chair around and sat down at it backwards, crossing his forearms over the back of it to prop up his chin.

“I can’t believe you got shot,” he told you, shaking his head. “You never get hit. You’re slipping.”

You couldn’t help but frown. “Like I expected armed guards in some pseudo-psychologist’s hotel suite,” you told him. 

Tony took that moment to turn his rant on Clint. “You knew!” he hissed, pointing at the archer. “Traitor!”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “I vouched for her,” she spoke up. “I told you she wouldn’t present a problem to anyone here. And has she? No.”

“Natasha, she had two million dollars of stolen jewels on her,” Steve replied, shaking his head. “I would say that was a problem.”

She ignored him, focusing her attention on you instead. “You on a job?” she asked.

You shook your head. “Nah,” you replied. “I was bored. Plus, I hate that guy.”

“You were bored?” Steve asked incredulously.

“Hey, we all have our hobbies,” Clint put in, trying not to smile.

You sighed. “I’ll return it, if it means all that much to you. I didn’t take it to sell and I wasn’t put up to do it. It just… seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“I expect you won’t be turning yourself in,” Steve replied with a sigh.

“Well obviously,” you said. “I’ll clean it up and mail it off. Easy-peasy. Is that good enough for you guys? Or am I still grounded?”

Tony frowned at you a long moment, seemingly pondering the situation. At the end of the day it would be his word whether or not you could stay, and he seemed a little torn. It wasn’t often anyone saw the handsome billionaire this worked up.

“Fine!” he relented, tossing his hands in the air. He took a step away and then turned back on his heel, pointing a vaguely accusatory finger in your direction. “But don’t touch my stuff!”

 

You did as promised, though not quite as the others might have liked. The necklace was returned through the mail with a strongly worded note advising that if he wanted the Star of Eternity back -- as you had deftly removed it from its setting -- then Mr. Winslow had better donate his proffered reward money and then some to a veteran’s charity. Once the story of the donation reached the news, you sent back the diamond itself.

 

The air in the Tower was tense after that. You found yourself almost glad that a mission came up, drawing most of them away for a few days. Dr. Banner stayed behind, nursing some sort of chemical burn on his hand, and you found yourself glad for the opportunity to get to know him better. He was the least frequent visitor in the common areas; Natasha told you that he spent most of his time in his lab or in his own quarters. With only the two of you left on the private floors of the Tower, it seemed only natural to spend time together.

A rainy evening found you once again in the lounge, seated a little more comfortably now that you had become accustomed to moving around with your sling. Bruce had chivalrously offered you the remote control but you declined, more lost in your thoughts than watching the screen in front of you. He settled on a documentary that the local PBS affiliate was running, something about migratory birds, and while you tuned out the narrator, you found the visuals at least somewhat interesting: lots of clear skies and graceful birds in flight.

“I’m sorry, is this boring you?” Bruce asked, glancing over to where you sat. He was the most relaxed you’d ever seen him, in a long-sleeve t-shirt and cargo pants, his feet up on the couch as he sat lengthwise across it.

“Hmm?” you responded, needing a moment to absorb what he’d said. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I wasn’t really watching. Just… thinking.”

The doctor offered a guarded smile. “I know how that goes,” he said, nodding. “Have you settled in well? I know it can be a little… intimidating.”

“Oh, which part?” you responded glibly. “The two nonagenarian super soldiers, ex-assassins, off the hinges scientists, or the pilot who flies without a plane? Not to mention the threat of a drop-in by an apparent god with some hardcore family dysfunction.”

“I suppose you fit right in, then,” Bruce told you, pausing his bird documentary and turning to face you fully. “Seems like we could use a reformed cat burglar around here.”

“Master thief,” you corrected. “And who says I’m reformed?”

“You haven’t stolen anything since you’ve been here,” Bruce pointed out. He seemed to be enjoying the banter, and it was nice to see him decompressing for a change. More often than not, he was distracted and very tightly wound. He could do with the relaxation, you thought.

“Well, I have lifted Tony’s wallet about a dozen times, but that’s more for fun than anything else,” you admitted, and Bruce barked out a long, deep laugh. “But it’s not like I can really work in this condition,” you continued, frowning down at your sling.

It was difficult for you, dealing with even a temporary physical impairment. You’d spent so much of your life relying on your body -- climbing, crawling, slipping through the shadows unnoticed, fighting back when attacked -- that to have it betraying your demands was infuriating, to say the least. You found yourself garnering a greater respect for those who had to cope with such things on a regular basis; they were clearly made of stronger stuff than you.

“Oh look,” Bruce said, a surprisingly teasing tone to his voice as he gestured towards the television with his uninjured hand. “ _To Catch a Thief_ is on tonight.”

You snorted and rolled your eyes. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” you told him with a sly grin. “We can watch that if afterwards, we watch _Jekyll and Hyde_.” When Bruce laughed, it was long and deep, his head thrown back in delight.

 

The movie was one you had seen before and, in truth, always enjoyed. There was something about vintage Cary Grant that always captured your imagination. Just as he was making his first escape from the police, you felt the doctor’s eyes on you and turned to return his gaze.

“Do you have a name?” he asked, pausing the film.

You arched an eyebrow. “You know my name,” you told him. Natasha had introduced you by your given name, and Tony had recently run a background check to verify it.

Bruce repeated your first name and nodded. “Of course,” he added. “But what I mean… I mean, they call Cary Grant ‘the Cat’. Do you have a name?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s kind of par for the course around here, isn’t it? Black Widow, Hawkeye… Hulk.”

Bruce shrugged good-naturedly. “It helps people to understand, I think. Heroes become something more than human to people. Having a name like that, a kind of title? It sort of makes it easier.”

You nodded. “Even villains get names, I suppose,” you agreed. You hedged for a moment and then shrugged. “Nox,” you admitted.

Bruce smile. “Nox,” he repeated. “Latin, I like it.”

“I didn’t make it up myself,” you explained, shifting on your seat to face him better. “I tend to work at night, and… I have a knack for keeping to the shadows. One guy says you come and go like the night, then another guy repeats it, newspaper picks it up…”

“And now you’re not just you anymore. You have a name. You’re a presence,” Bruce fills in, nodding. “Happened to most of us.”

“But you get all the good press,” you told him with a chuckle. “Me, I get tagged for things I never did. Kind of like our friend here,” you said, gesturing towards the screen.

Bruce sighed, starting the film again. “I guess it comes with the territory.”


	4. Chapter 4

Cary Grant is lurking on a rooftop when you fall asleep. The quiet with Bruce was comfortable and the patter of the rain outside had lulled you into a deep slumber, so much so that you hadn’t even heard as the rain turned to a storm, or the flurry of activity as Bruce’s compatriots returned home. That was unusual for you, typically a light sleeper, but there was something very safe about staying on the Tower; you had, without even realizing it, let down your guard.

You woke to a stiff back a little after three that morning. You sat up and stretched as best as you could manage, noting that a thin blanket had been thrown over you at some point. The television was off but there were dim lights on in the common room, and you yawned, wondering why Bruce hadn’t just woken you before leaving.

“I told him to leave you,” a low voice spoke, answering your thoughts. You turned and saw Natasha sitting in a nearby easy chair, a steaming mug of tea clutched in her hands. “You looked peaceful.”

She looked a little worse for wear. She was wearing what you had come to know as her uniform of sorts, a fitted black tactical suit with space and places for a variety of weaponry. She had stripped it down since returning, it seemed; she was simply wearing the suit and her boots, belt and holsters stored away. There was a strip of gauze taped to her chin and she looked a little exhausted.

You frowned. “You said it wasn’t anything dangerous this time,” you pointed out. “That you just had to put in appearances.”

Natasha sighed, and took a sip of her tea before answering. “Things got out of hand,” she relented.

“Clint?” you asked, noting the absence of the man who was often at her hip.

“He’s fine,” she reassured you. “Showering. We’ll… he’ll probably head to bed afterwards.”

You sighed, and leaned back in your seat. “You don’t have to do that with me,” you reminded. “I know. I’m pretty sure everyone here does as well.” Natasha shrugged with a slow roll of her shoulders, clearly somewhat pained by the action.

“Sometimes,” she counseled quietly, “it’s nice to have something that you don’t go showing off. That’s just yours.”

You nodded. “I think I get it,” you agreed. You sat up again and yawned, noticing that the room was in a bit more disarray than when you had fallen asleep. There were two empty glasses on the coffee table, and what looked like a pair of boots sitting beside the bar. The seating looked rumpled, as though someone had just stepped away.

“How did everybody else fare?” you asked curiously.

“Not too bad,” Natasha told you. “Cuts and bruises mostly. Steve took the worst of it.”

You sat up a little straighter. “Steve?” you echoed. “Is he okay?”

“He’s in the med bay,” Natasha told you, and stood and stretched. She took another long sip of her mug, clearly finishing her drink. “He took a blow to the head. Probably would have killed anyone else, but he’s a little hard-headed anyway,” she told you with a small smile at her own joke. “He’s still unconscious, but his vitals are fine. It’s not the first time something like this has happened -- he’ll wake up once he’s finished healing.”

You couldn’t help but frown. The idea of Steve -- of anyone, really -- being taken out by a blow to the head was disconcerting. It was hard to imagine the strong, vital Captain being in anyway incapacitated.

“I think it’s time for a hot shower and some sleep,” Natasha told you, making her way towards the communal kitchen to deposit her empty mug. She paused in the doorway and glanced back at you. “You might go have that shoulder looked at,” she said thoughtfully. “The med staff is already up and about, and it looks like it’s gotten a little stiff.”

You watched as she turned to leave, knowing exactly why she had said it. “Goodnight, kotyonok,” you called after her.

“Goodnight, ptichka,” Natasha called back.

 

Your shoulder was fine. Healing better than expected, you were told. You might even be able to lose the sling a week early. It was good to hear, but they knew as well as you did that you weren’t really there for a spur of the moment, late night check-up. Still, you went through the motions and once your sling was back in place, the smiling nurse on staff had been kind enough to direct you to wear the Captain was more or less sleeping it off. It seemed that Natasha had told them that you’d be stopping by.

“Don’t be too concerned,” the nurse told you. “No one looks really well when they’re unconscious.”

He was laid out on a gurney, in the same little cubicle where you had been kept after your own impromptu surgery at the Tower; he seemed to dwarf it, his height and size making it seem more suited towards a doll than an adult man. He was in his tactical gear, though they had removed his cap and harness, his blonde hair messy and wild against the flat hospital-issue pillow beneath his head. His breathing was deep and even but he showed no signs of waking.

You frowned, noting that they had left his gloves on his hands in spite of a few obvious wounds to his knuckles, though it seemed they had already scabbed over and begun to heal. Still, it bothered you, and you took it upon yourself to gently open the gloves at the wrist and pull each one off his hands, resting them on the counter behind the bed.

“What did you get yourself into, Captain?” you murmured quietly, shaking your head. He looked young like this, innocent; his face was lax and calm, his eyelashes fluttering just gently every now and again. 

The dried blood still bothered you, so you began rummaging in the drawers of the counter until you found a clean white towel. There was a small sink in the corner and you let the tap run a moment, allowing it to get warm but not too hot, before dousing half of the towel in the water and wringing it out. It was damp, but not soaking, and perfectly suited for your purpose.

You started with his hands, gently blotting the dried blood away from the lines and creases of his fingers. You were careful not to put too much pressure on the wounds, small as they were, as they had nearly healed on their own and you didn’t want to risk breaking the skin again. Once clean, you glanced to his face; his features were still relaxed but there was blood there, and dirt on his cheekbone. Never able to leave a job half done, you rinsed your towel and set back to work.

There had been a glancing blow to his temple, just a little cut that didn’t seem to have needed stitches but was still deep enough to bleed, and you gently wiped away the last of the sluggish flow of blood. His cheek had a scrape that hadn’t bled but there was dirt and debris there, and you frowned, wondering why they hadn’t thought to clean it up. You were even gentler here, dabbing away a few tiny pieces of gravel before passing the soft towel gently over the dirt. You hadn’t noticed the way his eyelashes had startle to flicker faster, or the way his brow had creased, until you felt his hand close over yours.

You startled, let out a small, “Oh!” and nearly dropped your hand away, until you noted the way he seemed to lean into your touch.

Steven sighed softly. “S’nice,” he said, not opening his eyes. He sighed again, the corners of his mouth lifting just gently into the tiniest of smiles, just for a second.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” you said quietly, moving again to wipe at his cheek with his hand still covering your own. “They just… you were all…”

“Ain’t often I get to wake up to a pretty girl takin’ care of me,” he said, eyes opening to fix you with a lazy blue gaze. He smiled again and you could see that he was still a little out of it; you couldn’t help but smile back.

“How are you feeling, Captain?” you asked primly.

His smile grew. “Better now,” he told you. “Helluva headache, though.” He reached with his free hand and pulled at the collar of his suit, opening it wide enough for you to see a small drip of blood that seemed to have fallen down from his ear. His hand guided your movements and you dipped the towel down, dabbing at mess. He made a noise deep in his throat at the sensation, clearly pleased with the attention.

“Natasha sent me to check on you,” you spoke quietly. “Seemed to think I’d be concerned.”

“Sweet of you to come,” he said, and when your hand drifted out of its errand, he didn’t let it go, twining his thick fingers between your own and dropping the towel on the side of the gurney. “Been wonderin’ what it might be like, wakin’ up and seein’ you there.”

You grinned down at him. “Still a little loopy there, aren’t you Cap?” 

He laughed and then winced, shifting his shoulders against the thin mattress on the gurney. He kept his grip on your hand, circling his thumb just gently against the side of your palm. It was strange to see him like this, so unguarded in his speech and action. You’d found him attractive from the start -- anyone with eyes would -- but this was the first moment that you found him… well… cute. 

It was on the tip of your tongue to say as much, Steve still smiling up at you and a matching grin playing across your face. Luckily -- or perhaps unluckily -- your words were stopped before they began when the curtain around the cubicle was pulled back and the Captain’s oldest friend stepped inside. 

Bucky Barnes was more or less the strong silent type, at least in your estimation. He kept to himself and you hadn’t spent much time with him, in spite of the several weeks you’d spent in residence at the Tower. He seemed surprised to see you there, still wearing his gear from whatever mission it was that had drawn much of the team away, and paused in his footsteps, glancing from you, to Steve, and back to you again.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes!” Steve called, a little louder than was necessary. You laughed softly and managed to extract your hand from the momentarily witless super-soldier. 

“Not at all,” you replied, shaking your head. “I was just leaving.”

“No, you don’t have to go…!” Steve called after you. He sat up quickly and immediately winced, one hand reaching to the back of his head.

“Feel better, Captain,” you called over your shoulder, and headed down to your quarters to get some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kotyonok: Russian for 'kitten'.   
> ptichka: Russian for 'birdy / little bird'.  
> Not posting in Cyrillic so that readers can have an idea of pronunciation.


	5. Chapter 5

The days after their return were quiet and a little tense, as they always tended to be after any sort of mission. You didn’t see Steve for several days; he needed time to decompress, you thought, and as much as his system could handle healing at high speed, his head injury had been a doozy. The quiet was good for him -- for all of them, you thought. Even Clint and Natasha had fallen off of your radar, retiring to their rooms for some regrouping time, alone. 

It was just as well. You’d been feeling a bit of cabin fever as of late and your spirits weren’t at their best. It had been three days since you’d seen hide or hair of anyone except for Tony, who liked to remind you on a regular basis that welcome in the Tower or not, he was still keeping an eye on you. Your spirits were in an upswing, however, when it came to your scheduled check-up in the med bay; if you promised to be careful, you were allowed to remove your sling ahead of schedule. Of course you agreed.

You were waiting for the nurse to come back with a new muscle relaxant prescription, testing the mobility of your newly freed arm, when Clint strolled up with a smile.

“Hey, look at you! Out of traction, are ya?” he asked. It was always strange to see him in such good humor after a battle, often beat up and still grinning. This time he had a split lip and some swelling at the bridge of his nose, and a couple of fingers splinted, but he still seemed to be in a great mood.

You had to think that it might be the alone time he’d had with his not so secret love as of late.

“Looks like it,” you agreed, testing how far you could raise your injured arm before it began to ache. They had warned you that you would need some therapy to get full mobility back; the tendons and ligaments in your shoulder had tightened as they healed, and you would have to work them back into proper shape.

Regular therapy would start in a week, but for the time being you would at least have the freedom of normal movement.

Clint laughed. “Got kind of a… ballerina thing going there,” he told you, arching his own arm over his head in mimicry of the movements you had been making.

You snorted. “Not quite that graceful,” you told him. “But how about you? Not going to lie -- you’ve looked better, man.”

“Yeah I’ll be fine in a day or two,” Clint told you, grabbing a rolling stool from nearby and perching on it, long legs stretched out to cross at the ankle. He had carried a can of Red Bull in with him, and popped the tab as he spoke. “We’ve all had worse. Sure as hell got off a lot easier this time around than Cap did.”

Your features drew into a frown. “So I saw,” you agreed.

“Oh, that’s right,” Clint said with a nod, mischievous glint in his eyes. “You were here when the old man woke up, weren’t you? Gettin’ a little touchy-feely, I heard.”

You stood and stretched, rolling your eyes. You should have expected as much from Clint. You doubt anyone outside of his inner circle would ever believe him to be quite so playful and teasing, but that was him all over; of course, he could be as serious as anyone else when necessary, but when he was able to let down his guard, there always seemed to be a hint of laughter in his eyes. You supposed it was a reaction to the nature of the work he did. While some like Natasha seemed to shut down or become quietly stoic even on their own time, others acted out. Clint was more of the latter variety.

“Really, Hawk?” you asked, shaking your head. “Stirring up a rumor mill like it’s a bad high school drama or something? You should know better.”

“Pretty sure I heard Barnes giving him shit for you getting all handsy,” Clint replied, chuckling.

“Boy Scouts aren’t really my type, if you recall,” you responded, doing your best to ignore the heat you felt creeping into your cheeks. Blush and you were a goner for sure -- Clint would never let you live it down.

“Boy Scout?” Clint snorted. “Oh, kiddo, if you only knew. Cap’s got a hell of a history of not taking orders and doing his own thing… you oughta ask his old bestie about that. I mean hell, the guy hits his Harley and disappears for days at a time if we’re not careful.

You had been turning to leave but you stopped, curiosity suddenly piqued. In the time you had gotten to know him, Steve certainly didn’t seem the motorcycle type. He was always so polite and formal, it just didn’t fit with the image that had grown in your mind; maybe a nice, sensible compact car, that you could see. An electric one, at that. But a motorcycle?

“Steve has a bike?” you asked cautiously, trying not to sound too interested. Clint knew you had a weakness for a man on a motorcycle.

Clint nodded, downing at least half of his energy drink in one pull. “Real touchy about it, too. Tony wanted to add some kind of mods for him and he spazzed out a little.”

You smiled and shook your head. “Sure, Clint,” you responded. Clearly, he was just trying to mess with your head. “I’ll catch you later,” you added, nodding to a nearby nurse who had been heading over with your new prescription.

“Hey, don’t believe me, go see for yourself,” Clint called after you. “Keeps it parked in the garage here and everything, you’ll see!”

“Yeah, sure,” you called back. “I’ll get right on that.”

 

You entered the elevator with every intention to head to your own rooms and relax, and maybe read for a little while. With all of his posturing, Tony had been quite generous and pretty much given over a tablet for our own personal use, so long as you should want it. You were fairly certain a new book in the series you had been reading had come out a day or two prior, and you had wanted to download it as soon as it was available.

Instead, you found yourself pressing the the button to take you to the basement garage. You sighed; you were certain Clint was putting you up to make a fool of yourself, but you couldn’t help it. You just had to see.

Sure enough, you were only a few steps out of the elevator when your eyes lit upon the gleaming figure of a late model Harley Davidson slim build motorcycle. It was a beautiful machine, made all the prettier by the man swinging his leg over the seat.

Steve was wearing what you had come to think of as Hot Dad Chic: a battered brown leather jacket over a button-down grey and blue checked plaid shirt, faded grey jeans, and a pair of brown work boots. He looked more like he should be manning the barbeque at a suburban cook-out than seated on such a gorgeous machine, but for some reason it worked for him. You’d be lying if you said it wasn’t appealing.

He smiled a little when he noticed you there, and before he could say a word in greeting, you held up the thumb and forefinger on each hand and squinted, as though framing him in a photograph.

“I like it,” you said. “Very _Leader of the Pack_. It’s a good look on you.”

He smiled, but seemed puzzled. “ _Leader of the Pack_?” he echoed.

You gave an overdramatic, long put-out sigh. “We really need to work on your pop culture education, Captain. When you get back from wherever you’re headed, it’s going to be you, me, and my iPod, until you can distinguish the Shirelles from the Shangri-Las, and sing every word to _Bohemian Rhapsody_.”

Steve laughed. “It’s a date,” he agreed amiably. You were a little startled by his response and though you hid it well, it brought a soft lull in the conversation. Sensing that, Steve looked around the empty garage and then back to you.

“What are you up to, down here? If I remember correctly, you more stumbled into the place then drove up to the curb,” he teased.

You held both of your hands up in a mimicry of surrender. “Don’t worry, Steve. I’m not here to hotwire any of Tony’s wheels. Just heard a rumor you had a bike. Had to see if it was true. But I have to say, I’m disappointed in you.”

“Why’s that?” he asked gamely.

You should your head. “No helmet, Captain? Just what kind of example are you setting for America’s youth? And just after a head injury, too. Tsk tsk.”

Steve laughed, running his hand through his hair. “I guess I just got too hard of a head for all that,” he told you, eyes still bright with humor. “Honestly, though. I just can’t get used to it.”

“You really should be careful,” you gently chided. “You had me a little worried the other night. Barely sounded like yourself when I went to see you.”

“So you did come there just to see me, huh?” Steve asked, and you couldn’t help the blush that rose to your face that time. “Nat said you had, but I wasn’t sure.”

You shrugged. “What can I say? I have great concern for the injured elderly.”

He leaned forward and reached to a shelf bolted to the wall beyond his bike, retrieving a plain white motorcycle helmet. He examined it for a moment, before glancing back to you.

“Well,” he said, offering it your way. “Are you coming?”


	6. Chapter 6

There was nothing quite like the feeling of the wind whipping past you as Steve rocketed you both down an empty stretch of highway. It had been slow going while still in the city, too much traffic and too many stoplights to really open up the engine, but Steve had driven with purpose and soon you had reached rural roads that allowed for greater speed. It seemed he had no destination in mind, just a simple need to be out in the coolness of the autumn day.

If you had wrapped your arms a little tighter around Steve’s midsection than was absolutely necessary, you blamed the stiffness of your injured arm, newly freed of its sling. You were pressed tight against his strong back, the vibration of the motor passing through the both of you as he drove. It was strangely intimate, being so close to him; you still considered him little more than acquaintance, after all, even as fond as you had grown of the man out of time. 

You found yourself wishing you hadn’t made such a fuss about safety; the thought of pressing your bare cheek to him as you rode was enticing, though the helmet made it an impossibility. Even through the plexiglass visor, you could smell his cologne: a woody scent, with a sweet spicy undertone. It was unusual, and you wondered if it harkened back to his youth. Either way, it was decidedly pleasant, and you found yourself closing your eyes and simply breathing it in as he drove you down the quiet country roads.

The two of you had been out for hours with nary a word passed between you. When Steve stopped for gas at an out of the way station, you sat together and sipped bad coffee from styrofoam cups before heading back out. He felt rather than saw you wince when you stretched your arms out around him again, the engine idling while he prepared to get back on the road. Without looking back, he closed a hand over your own where it sat around his abdomen.

“You doing okay, doll?” he asked.

“I’m good,” you replied, voice muffled by the helmet. You were suddenly quite glad of its presence; the sudden flush that had risen to your cheeks at the familiar term he had used was definitely something you’d rather he not see. “Just working out some stiffness. I’m still good to go.”

He drew his fingers softly back and forth over your own.

“You tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” he said.

You nodded and replied with a simple “Okay”. It seemed to satisfy him, and he pulled back onto the road.

 

The storms that had rolled in on the night the team had returned from their last outing had taken a strong foothold in the area in the days after, with the sky only clearing that morning. You assumed this had been the impetus for Steve’s trip -- too much time cooped up, from his injury and from the rain, a feeling you had grown to know all too well. Perhaps that was why neither had thought to look beyond the clear afternoon sky and check a weather report before venturing out.

The storms hadn’t completed their circuit, not passing by but simply circling back around to pummel the city and beyond with further thunder, lightning, and torrential rain. Steve hadn’t gotten back on any highway since the last fuel stop, sticking to wide country roads flanked by trees and the outcroppings of the Catskills. You weren’t entirely sure where you were, knowing only that you had passed through Monticello seemingly hours ago. Steve had slowed to a near crawl on the bike and you were gripping him even more tightly than before. Your joke about Leader of the Pack had you more than a little nervous; each time the thunder rolled you felt yourself startle and shiver a little in the cold. The balminess of an Indian Summer day had disappeared with the onset of the rain, leaving only bitter cold in its wake. 

Steve spotted the brambled driveway long before you did, and you were surprised at the sudden turn up a narrow gravelly road. Minutes passed before a building came into view among the trees, what looked like a small cabin set far enough back to not even see the main road. There were no lights on in the windows and, judging by the growth along the drive, it seemed to have been closed up for the season for at least a month or two.

Steve pulled up to the porch and shut down the motorcycle, hopping off and extending a hand for you to do the same. You took it gratefully with the hand of your good arm, cradling the arm of the other to your chest; the cold and the rain had chilled you to the bone, and your injured joint had begun to ache. Your legs felt loose and jellied, and you wobbled a little as you walked, stumbling in the undergrowth, and Steve was quick to reach his arm out around your waist in an unconscious mimicry of the first time you had met. You pulled off the helmet, leaving it on the seat of the bike, and regretting the decision immediately as the rain pounded down over your face and hair.

“We can at least get some shelter here, for a while,” he shouted over the rain. He didn’t let go as he guided up up the short stairs onto a covered porch, testing the door handle when he reached it.

He sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to break in,” he said with a frown, clearly not keen on the idea but knowing you both needed to get out of the storm.

“Not so fast,” you spoke up, laying a hand over his wrist where he gripped the handle, clearly gearing up to snap the mechanism with brute strength.

You knelt on the porch and slipped a couple of hair pins out of the back pocket of your jeans: you never traveled without a little something like that on you, just in case. It took only a moment or two of fiddling with the simple three-pin lock before you were able to open door.

Steve shook his head, smiling down at you. “You really are something else,” he said.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” you asked, stepping inside. He didn’t answer, as he turned and headed down the stairs as an afterthought, pushing the bike up onto the covered porch. You shivered, watching the way he half-carried it up the stairs.

Something else, indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

You spotted a light switch near the door and flipped it, not really expecting anything to happen. No lights came on and as you glanced around in the dimness, you noted that you didn’t see much in the way of lamps or lights at all. After a moment, though, a soft hum began to fill the room and you felt the floor vibrate just slightly beneath your feet.

“Must be a generator,” Steve posited, glancing around the room. 

The cabin itself seemed to be comprised of a single room, save for a partially ajar door that led to what looked like a tiny bathroom. A small kitchenette ran along one side of the room with a half-size refrigerator, a small sink and counter, a tiny dinette, and a wood-burning stove; on the opposite wall was a full-sized bed, the mattress bare. There was a stone fireplace and two easy chairs opposite, each draped in an old sheet, and a stereo alongside that looked at least thirty years old, with a clutch of vinyl records stacked up beside it. You had thought the place would be a hunting cabin as you approached, but now you could see it was just someone’s little hideaway.

Thankfully, some firewood sat piled beside the fireplace, dry and ready to use; you found some matches in a kitchen drawer and Steve got a fire going just as the last light of day died out, leaving you both in the flickering glow of firelight. 

 

“We’re lucky this place was even here,” you spoke up, shivering as you tried to warm your hands by the fire. You were soaked through, the simple long-sleeved raglan you wore fitted slickly against your form and your jeans dripping wet and uncomfortable; even your hair dripped rainwater down your back from its few moments of exposure to the downpour.

“Maybe we’ll get even luckier, and they’ll have some towels,” Steve responded, and the way he flinched suddenly as his own words settled around him made it clear that he regretted the phrasing. You chuckled a little but didn’t draw too much attention to it, moving to the door to toe off your shoes near the door while he went to search the few closets and drawers he could spy in the single room.

The cold and the wet of your clothing was driving you mad; you knew nothing would ever dry so long as you were still wearing it and, since it was so dark even with the fire going, you decided to forgo modesty for comfort. Steve ventured out of the bathroom with an armload of old bath towels just as you were wringing out your jeans over the kitchen sink. He audibly gulped and then softly called your name, causing you to turn and offer an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry,” you said, glancing down at your bare legs and pair of faded blue panties. Thankfully those at least were relatively dry. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. Mind if I get one of those towels?”

He did an admirable job of keeping his eyes above your waist as he ventured over, boots squeaking on the patch of old linoleum alongside the kitchen sink, and offered you a towel. You smiled in thanks and quickly wrapped it around your body, holding it in place with one hand while shimmying yourself out of your soaked-through shirt and bra without any loss of propriety. You hung your wet clothing over the side of the counter, and wrapped the towel around yourself a little tighter with a slow shiver.

“You should probably do the same,” you warned. “You may not catch cold like the rest of us, but you’re going to be pretty uncomfortable if you keep those on.”

Steve chewed on his lip a moment before nodding. “You’re probably right,” he said with a sigh. He had already stripped of his jacket and hung it over the back of one of the small dinette chairs, so he moved to the door to leave his boots beside your shoes and then moved to the bathroom to divest himself of the rest.

He returned with a plain white towel wrapped at his waist, the dark elastic of a pair of briefs peeking out from above it. You did your best not to stare, but admittedly, it was difficult. Many of the men you met in your line of work were in decent enough shape, but Steve was quite above and beyond that. You’d had suspicion that something delectable was lurking beneath his relatively subdued choices in clothing; you just hadn’t expected him to be quite so… perfect.

“I thought this might help?” he offered, and you noticed for the first time that he had carried out a white t-shirt, presumably something he had worn beneath the checkered button-down. “It’s pretty dry.”

You met his gaze and smiled in gratitude, accepting the shirt and pulling it over your head in a quick, smooth movement. The shirt was huge on you, his shoulders far broader than your own and his torso long enough that the hem reached to your thighs. You let your towel drop to the floor and settled yourself on the edge of the stripped mattress, near enough to the fire to warm the chill out of your skin. 

“Thanks,” you told him earnestly, enjoying the scent of his cologne still clinging to the soft cotton fabric, even as the collar dipped a little too low and spread a little too wide.

“Oh, I didn’t mean…” he started, eyes dropping to your newly discarded towel. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze as it slowly swept back up your legs, pausing briefly at your waist and the twin points the cool air had drawn out against the softness of his t-shirt, before reaching your eyes. He immediately flushed, realizing what he had done, and tried to apologize, but you weren’t having it.

“C’mon now,” you told him, patting the bed beside you. “We’re both adults here, no harm, no foul. God knows I’ve looked a little longer than necessary with you passing by now and again.”

He scooped up the towel as he moved to sit beside you, and you were surprised when he lifted it, gesturing towards you. 

“May I?” he asked, ever so polite.

“Uh… sure,” you agreed, not entirely sure what you had given your permission for. Steve slid behind you, losing his own towel as he went, and gently began drying the dripping rainwater from your hair.

You sighed, leaning back into him without even thinking on it. His skin was cool to the touch, chilled from the rain, but solid and welcoming you to relax. You did just that, making no attempt to stifle the small groan that escaped your lips at the feel of his long thick fingers running through your damp hair. 

“Is this okay?” Steve asked quietly, his hands drifting out of your hair to gently work at a knot of tension in your neck. The warmth of the fire combined with this soothing ministrations of his hands made you feel sleepy and relaxed. You hummed out a simple “Mmhmm” and leaned forward, allowing him better access to your back and shoulders, and Steve continued on with the gentle pressure from his hands.

He moved carefully when he came to your injured shoulder; the scars had healed well enough, marking out just the place where you had been hurt, and Steve was mindful of them as his calloused hands worked you until you felt boneless. You gave another pleased sigh when you felt the warmth of his breath on your skin and the velvety soft press of his lips to your shoulder. Closing your eyes, you let the overwhelming sense of safety and comfort overtake you, and you drifted off into a pleasant dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

The rain was still battering the roof of the little out of the way cabin when you woke. The room bore the darkness of near midnight, the fire having died down to embers while you had slept. You were puzzled a moment before you recalled that it had only been early evening when you had arrived; whatever hours you had lost to sleep had only carried you later into the night. 

You felt warm, in spite of the dying fire, and it took a moment for you to realize that dry towels had been draped over you like a blanket. There had been no bedclothes on the mattress, and it seemed your companion had improvised for warmth and comfort. It was only as that thought struck you that you realized you were half sprawled over Steve’s warm chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath as he slumbered on. His arms were wrapped around you, holding you close, and you had a leg thrown over his as you were curled against him.

The intimacy of it was startling, but even more surprising was how easy and right it felt.

You tried to sit up but realized that the strength of his embrace wouldn’t allow for it. You dropped down again and had to laugh softly, knowing the idea of being trapped in the arms of Captain America would have seemed ludicrous to you only a few months ago; that you’d enjoy it so much would have seemed even crazier.

“Steve,” you called quietly, hoping to rouse him. When he gave no response, you ran your fingers across his ribs, seeking out a spot to tickle. All the action drew from him was a sleepy, pleased sigh with no sign of waking.

You leaned over and nuzzled at his chest. “Steve,” you repeated, to no avail. On a whim you placed a gentle kiss against his sternum, receiving another happy sigh for your troubles. You said his name again, continuing your ministrations against his chest, drawing out more pleased noises from his sleeping lips and garnering an interest you could feel pressed against your thigh. As much fun as it all was, you needed to stretch and visit the bathroom, so when you pressed your lips to him again, you let your teeth nip and scrape against his skin.

He awoke suddenly with a groan, your name on his lips as he did, and when his bleary eyes focused down on you, you could see even in the dim light that he wore a sleepy smile.

“Hey,” he said, stifling a yawn.

“Hey back, sleepyhead,” you replied, and dropped another short peck on his chest, feeling him rumble a soft groan beneath you. “I have to get up,” you advised.

Steve nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. You weren’t sure if your ears were deceiving you, or if he really did sound a little disappointed at the prospect. When he didn’t move or release his hold on you, you laughed.

“You kind of have to let me go for me to be able to do that, Captain,” you advised. Steve laughed, loosening his grip so that you could slide out, and sat up as you stood.

“Sorry about that,” he said, shaking his head. “I guess I forget my strength sometimes.”

“No worries,” you replied, and yawned. “Best sleep I’ve had in a good long while.”

You stretched, arms lifted above your head and back arched, working a little stiffness out of your spine; the sharp intake of breath from behind is all that alerted you to the way your borrowed shirt lifted as you arched, riding a little higher in the back by virtue of being rumpled from sleep. You may have smirked to yourself a little as you walked away; it was hard not to find a little ego boost in having your ass ogled by a national icon.

 

You made a short visit to the bathroom, glad to find that everything was in working order and there was a fresh bar of soap on the sink; the wrapper was in a small wastebasket by the door, so you assumed Steve had found it and set it out while he was changing. His shirt and jeans were hung neatly over the shower curtain rod and you shook your head, realizing that you would look a wrinkled mess in the morning and he would be neat as a pin.

When you emerged, you found that Steve had gotten the fire going again and was opening cabinets in the little kitchenette.

“Are you hungry?” he called, hearing you approach. “The refrigerator is working but it’s empty, though it looks like there’s a lot of shelf-stable stuff in the cabinets here. Lots of just-add-water packages.”

“I could eat,” you replied, and pulled the dry towels from the bed to make a little nest on the pinewood floor in front of the fireplace. “May as well use the fireplace to heat anything, no point in starting up another fire in the kitchen stove, right?”

Steve rummaged for everything you needed, finding a small pot, bowls, and cutlery. Water from the tap was the only extra ingredient, and within a half hour you were seated beside Steve in front of the fireplace, eating ramen noodles that had been cooked on an open fire. You felt your life was bordering into the surreal, but you found yourself hard-pressed to care.

 

You didn’t speak much while you ate, but it was nice just to watch him in the firelight. You felt that you had been taking it for granted, the somewhat ordinary circumstances that led to such extraordinary friendships. There weren’t many who could ever have called Natasha Romanoff a friend, and even fewer still who were wholly taken in by the heroes with whom she had found a purpose. Steve was just another link in that chain but you couldn’t help but feel that it was something more than that, something important.

He was beautiful. Even with sleep-mussed hair and a shadow of stubble on his cheeks, Steve Rogers had a light about him, an undeniable kindness to blue eyes still haunted by the past and an easy smile for anyone who needed it. You couldn’t help but feel unbelievably fortunate when his attention was focused on you; when it was, he seemed to blot out the rest of the world entirely, somehow sharing a little bit of that inner light he carried and making you feel warm and whole.

Even now, as he noted you watching him, he offered a shy sort of smile, not understanding the attention that you -- and surely countless others -- paid him, seeking just a moment to stand inside his glow.

You cleared your throat and smiled back. “So is this your first ramen noodle dinner, Captain?” you asked.

He arched an eyebrow at you. “‘Captain’?” he echoed. “Aren’t we a little past formalities… Nox?” You sighed, setting your near-empty bowl on the floor and leaning back against the foot of the bed.

“I’d have thought at least Bruce would have kept his mouth shut,” you responded, rolling your eyes. “You guys are worse than a pack of teenage girls, I swear.”

“Hey, I like it,” he said, nudging you gently with his elbow. “Means ‘night’, doesn’t it? Kinda reminds me of that poem, you know? ‘She walks in beauty like the night’. Seems fitting.”

You flushed and shivered. You couldn’t help it. A ridiculously attractive man was quoting Lord Byron at you; pretense be damned, if there was ever any moment in your life to be flattered, this was it.

“If you’re trying to make me blush, Captain Rogers, you have succeeded,” you told him, the burning in your cheeks evident even in the dim light of the flames.

Steve chuckled, and nudged at you again. “Not trying to do anything, doll. Just stating the facts as I see’em.”

“You are too…” you started, and then stopped short when your eyes lit upon a tiny blue speck of light just along the wall. “Hey, what is that?”


	9. Chapter 9

Before Steve could respond to even ask what had caught your attention, you were on your feet and padding towards it. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust once leaving the glow of the fire, but once they had, you realized that the little pinprick of light was on the old stereo against the wall, indicating that it was getting power. You had almost forgotten about flipping the switch by the door; it must have jump-started a generator beneath the subfloor. That would explain the running refrigerator as well.

You said as much to Steve, and he agreed.

“Maybe we can try the radio, see if we can find a weather report?” he suggested, coming up to stand behind you. He reach out and began fiddling with buttons and dials, his free hand at your hip to steady you. All that the speakers supplied, however, was static.

“We must be in a dead zone,” you told him. You had both checked your phones upon arriving, making sure they hadn’t been damaged by the rain; yours had no signal at all, and Steve’s was faint. He hadn’t bothered with it any further, wanting to conserve the dying battery in case an urgent call should come from the Tower.

“At least we have some records,” you pointed out, and crouched to examine the stack on the floor beside the stereo. “Maybe we can get to work on that musical education you so sorely need a little early, what do you think?”

Steve laughed and dropped to the floor beside you, the hand that had been at your hip now rubbing a slow circle at the small of your back. You gave another involuntary shiver at the touch, and you just knew he was smirking over it. Beautiful bastard.

“I’m not as dumb as you think when it comes to this stuff,” he pointed out. “It’s just a lot of material for one guy to cover, and things can get kind of busy for me sometimes.”

“I can see how that whole saving-the-world deal can bite into your free time,” you replied with a laugh. “Still, here we are, right? Let’s see if whoever owns this place has anything decent.”

 

The album selection was not the best you’d ever seen. Whoever owned the little cabin seemed to have a predilection towards disco and 70’s era polka albums, with a few terrible 80’s bands tossed in for good measure, and while the latter was a genre that did have a few gems the Captain might enjoy, the few available at the moment were nothing to get excited over. You had nearly settled on the least offensive, a Sister Sledge LP with at least one memorable hit, when you spotted a little audio gold at the bottom of the stack.

“Oh, here we go!” you said, recognizing the red-toned image of a woman wailing into a microphone on the album sleeve. “Have you heard any Janis Joplin yet, Steve?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Should I have?” he replied.

“She’s been gone a long while now, so maybe not,” you relented, and stood, pulling the vinyl record out from the sleeve and inspecting for scratches in the low light of the fire. “But I think everybody should get to know her sound. She was amazing.”

 

Vinyl was not exactly your forte; you grew up with cassettes and compact discs, and while you knew exactly how to fix a cassette with pulled out tape using only a pencil, or how to buff a skip out a cd, getting a record player started was a little beyond your abilities. Before you even had time to ask for help, Steve was standing behind you, guiding your movements in setting up the player and placing the needle.

You both retreated to sit on the bed and you smiled at the look of surprise on Steve’s face. You could only imagine what it must be like, hearing this music for the first time; there was so much that you had grown up with, a sort of cultural clarity embedded within your time, that you had no recollection of the first time you heard Janis Joplin sing. 

“Wow,” he said, as the first song wound down. “She’s… she’s really something else.”

You smiled. “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” you asked.

He laughed a little. “A good thing,” he relented. “Not the kind of thing I’m used to, but… good. I guess I’m more used to something you can dance to?”

The next song kicked on, a ballad cover of a girl group song with horns, piano, and a perfect tempo. You grinned and stood, offering out your hand. He raised an eyebrow at you, not moving for a moment, before you shook your head and put your hands on your hips.

“Going to leave a girl hanging, Steve?” you asked. You had barely finished speaking when he was on his feet, pulling your arms up around his neck and placing his hands low on your waist. 

You danced together, there in the firelight, to the crackling sound of an old Janis track, both barely dressed and hiding from the storm that continued to howl outside. You could feel his breath on your lips, gaze steadily holding yours, head hung low to press his forehead against your own. The intimacy of the moment set butterflies loose inside you, the overwhelming sense that you were standing at the edge of a great precipice looming before you, and all you wanted to do was swan dive off the edge. 

Neither of you seemed to notice as the music stopped and the rain begin to slow, the pitter-patter on the roof dropping to a more leisurely pace than the dramatic thundering it had begun with. The rest of the world had dropped away, leaving you and the Captain in your own warm little sphere. You weren’t even sure how much time had passed.

He whispered your name and you had the intense suspicion that you were about to be kissed when the record player came back to life, skipping on the first beat of a new track, loudly interrupting you. You both jumped apart, startled by the noise, and you laughed it off.

“Guess that’s the end of today’s music lesson,” you mused, pulling the record from the player and turning it off. “And hey, I think the rain’s letting up.” Steve cocked his head to the side and listened a moment before nodding in agreement.

“I think you’re right,” he told you. “If it holds, we might be able to head back in the morning. Should probably get some more sleep, and get an early start.”

You agreed with a quiet hum and busied yourself cleaning up the mess of your little picnic by the fireplace, rinsing out the dishes and placing them in the sink. When you turned back, Steve had moved the nest of towels back to the bed and was in the process of stretching back out. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t paused then, watching the movement of the muscles in his back as he made himself comfortable. When you ambled back and crawled onto the mattress, he patted the spot next to him and wrapped you both in a warm cocoon of towels, pulling you back against his chest as you had been when you woke.

“Goodnight Steve,” you said quietly, making yourself comfortable with your head on his chest.

He pushed your hair back away from your face and dropped a kiss atop your head. “Goodnight,” he whispered back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cM0T9fumD5k).


	10. Chapter 10

The early morning brought with it a complete stop of the rain, and for that you were grateful. You hadn’t relished the idea of the long ride home, getting pelted with even a shower of cold rain; the clear skies seemed to guarantee you at least a few hours respite, and you both hurriedly straightened up in the little cabin as you prepared to leave. Steve folded the towels and left them in the bathroom, so that the owners would know they had been borrowed. He made sure the fire was completely out while you straightened up in the kitchen and re-stacked the records next to the stereo. 

You both dressed quickly and it was with no small amount of regret that you returned his t-shirt, though it had been fun to toss it over your head with your back to him and hear him laugh and call you a tease. Your shoes hadn’t dried completely and were a bit uncomfortable, but you certainly couldn’t be going about barefoot.

Before you left, Steve scrounged for a pen and some paper in the kitchen and left a note on the dinette table, apologizing for the intrusion with a promise to repay the hospitality in the future. After that, you were off.

 

The roads were still slick but not nearly as dangerous as they had been upon your arrival. Steven’s phone had completely died and you were still without a viable signal, so when you stopped at a small diner a ways down the road for breakfast, Steve was glad to find a payphone and used it to call in to the Tower and let them know you were both on your way back.

Whoever he spoke to must have been giving him hell for disappearing with you; you could see the steady flush rise in his cheeks and heard him tell the other party “it’s not like that” and to “shut up, would you?” more than once. He spoke to a waitress and inquired about the cabin up the road, hoping to contact the owner, and you were both surprised to find that it had been listed for sale for several months.

When he returned to your table, you barely had time to order coffee before he was recognized. Thankfully the diner was relatively empty, and you had only to deal with a few longing stares and loud whispers. Steve was kind enough to take a photo with the owner, holding out a plate of their ‘Red, White, and Blueberry’ pancake special; he was a little embarrassed when they told him they were going to hang it in a place of honor on the wall. 

 

The ride back to the Tower seemed to pass far more quickly than the trip out; you suspected it had something to do with a personal inclination towards staying away and enjoying some private time with Steve. You liked him -- you had almost since you met him -- and though few were allowed beyond the doors of the Tower’s private floors, there were enough pairs of prying eyes there to make you feel a little uncomfortable. You were the interloper, after all, the one who didn’t belong. Though they all treated you with kindness, you still felt like an outsider.

Ever the gentleman, Steve walked you to your door. The remnants of the rain and the coolness of morning had left your shoulder aching, and you had decided some pain medication would be in order, and perhaps a nap; hours out in the coolness had made you tired, and it wasn’t as though you’d had the most restful of nights. It had been hard to concentrate on sleeping, with Steve’s warm body pressed against your own. You’d spent much of the night just watching the rise and fall of his chest, your eyes catching his own glittering back at you more than once in the dark.

You felt a little bit like a teenager when you arrived at your door, turning to face your companion, unsure of what to stay. Your plans for the prior day had been simple relaxation and a little reading, and somehow they had evolved into a rainy outing on the back of the Captain’s Harley. It was probably one of the best days you’d had in recent memory.

“So…” you said, biting your lip. “That was fun. Unexpected, but fun.”

Steve laughed. “I’m glad you had a good time,” he told you. “I guess I should plan a little better before hitting the road like that.”

“Oh, but then we wouldn’t have had our little adventure,” you replied, giving him your coyest of smiles. His gaze drifted from yours eyes to your lips and back again, asking a question without any words and creating a bloom of warmth in your chest.

Even after all that had happened, he still asked permission.

It took only your smile to grant it, and then he was wrapping his arms around you and lowering his lips to your own. He was so gentle, soft little chaste presses against your mouth until you sighed and he deepened the kiss, drawing your body flush against his own. You could have gladly let it go on for hours if not for the sudden intrusion of a loud wolf-whistle and a laughing “Attaboy, Stevie!”

You pulled away just far enough to see Bucky and Sam walking past, clearly heading back from the gym, which was on the same floor. They were still laughing as they went.

Steve sighed and pressed his forehead to yours, arms still around you.

“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “It seems my friends are determined to bust my chops when it comes to you.”

“Not the first time, then?” you asked, forcing a pause in the conversation to steal another chaste kiss. He nipped at your lower lip when you pulled away again.

“Maybe they’ve been giving me trouble since you walked in,” he told you, seeming to breathe a little faster, though not from exertion. “Maybe they figured I was sweet on you from the start.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” you told him, and kissed him gently on the cheek while you slipped a hand behind you to open your door. You stepped out of his embrace and winked at him. “I’ll catch you later, Cap,” you said.

He grinned. “You’d better,” he replied, and turned to walk down the corridor. 

Closing the door behind you, you couldn’t help but smile; maybe getting shot wasn’t such a bad thing after all.


	11. Chapter 11

You had teased Natasha and Clint before, about seemingly being attached at the hip, but found yourself in quite the same situation with Steve. The Tower’s medical staff gave you clear physical therapy and rehab instructions to begin working your shoulder, and Steve had appointed himself your de facto trainer; you didn’t mind one bit. If you weren’t in the gym trying to regain your shoulder’s mobility, you found yourself often having a cup of coffee with him in the communal kitchen or sharing a pair of earbuds in the lounge as you continued the musical education you had started in the cabin.

Natasha teased you mercilessly. When Steve wasn’t available, she served as your back-up trainer, and the morning after a short mission that found Steve stuck in a briefing had her with you at the mats.

Tony had been kind enough to have a set of uneven bars installed for your use; Natasha had informed him of your childhood background in the sport of gymnastics and how it had come in useful in your trade, and he seemed fairly ambivalent about you regaining skill to go back to your old ways. After an hour or so of jumps or flips, you felt your arms needed a rest, and hung from the lower bar by your knees, doing a series of ab crunches. You were never much of a gym-rat after all of the training in your youth, but months spent keeping careful and still to avoid further injury had left you feeling a little too soft around the middle, even if Natasha insisted there had been no change.

“So…” she began, stretching on the mats beside where you worked. “Tell me more about this cozy little cabin rendezvous.”

You grunted and rolled your eyes. “I already… told you,” you said, panting as you worked. “Nothing happened. We… just got… stranded.”

“Yes, so you said,” she agreed, nodding. “Stranded in the rainy wilds in a romantic little _ukrytiye_ , with very little on in the way of clothing. That is what you told me.”

You groaned and stopped your exercise, hanging your hands down before uncurling your legs to hit the mats with a short roll, landing in a sitting position just beside your loyal, if slightly irritating, friend.

“It wasn’t romantic!” you told her, exasperated. “It was wet! And cold!”

“Until Steve built a fire and you two stripped,” Natasha responded, a sly little smile playing across her features. You knew she was only teasing you, but it was hitting a little too close that morning. 

Tony had been dogging you for days, inquiring in ever more lewd terms about super-soldier stamina, and just that morning, a blurry cell phone photo from the little out of the way diner you and Steve had stopped at had shown up in the New York Post, with a headline screaming out **_‘HAS CAPTAIN AMERICA FOUND HIS LADY LIBERTY?’_**.

Thankfully, they hadn’t captured a clear image of your face. Your family thought you were a flight attendant, and it would have been a little awkward to explain.

 

“Well?” Natasha pressed.

You frowned. “Well what?” you snapped.

She ignored your tone and continued. “Did you two sleep together?”

You laid back on the mat and sighed. “Yes. We slept together. As in next to each other. On the same bed,” you said.

“But did you have sex?” she pressed. You had to wonder why someone who kept her own personal relationship so far under wraps was so intent on pestering you about your own.

“Oh my God, why are you asking me this?” you responded, covering your face with your hands. “Jesus, Natasha, no. We did not have sex. Are you happy?”

“Why would I be happy? It was just a question. You’re a little touchy on the subject, don’t you think?” Natasha replied mildly.

“Really? I’m touchy?” you responded, your last nerve successfully fried. “Fine then, what about you? And Clint? Did you have sex with him last night, Natasha? You can answer, it’s just a question.”

“No,” she replied, stretching out on her back beside you. “We had sex this morning. Twice.” You groaned into the mat and when she started to laugh, you couldn’t help but join in.

“What’s so funny?” a new voice called, and Natasha smiled.

“Well, speak of the devil,” you muttered.

“Nothing’s funny,” the redhead called in answer. “I was just telling our little Noxie that we had sex this morning.”

“Twice!” Clint added cheerfully. You were still laughing, and didn’t even see as Natasha launched herself up from the mat. Clint clearly wasn’t expecting it, his gym bag still slung over his shoulder, and he hit the mats with a thud, taken down abley by the strength of the Black Widow’s legs wrapping around his neck.

He lay there, grunted, and gripped at her thigh. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

“I don’t think you were supposed to kiss and tell,” you warned.

“She never lets me tell!” he replied, still held firmly. “Wouldn’t you want a chance to brag a little if you were me?”

Natasha arched an eyebrow at him. “You do realize I could kill you right now,” she told him.

Clint grinned at her. “Then I would die a happy man,” he said, and you both watched Natasha break into one of her very rare full smiles and laugh. She loosened her grip but Clint made no move to rise, instead sliding up even as she leaned back, planting one hand on the mat on either side of her head. You took that as your cue to leave.

You stood and headed towards the door, and Natasha glanced up at you and called, “Where are you going?”

“I’m done for the day,” you told her. “I need a shower. And I really don’t need to see your Round Three.” 

Their laughter followed you out the door and you were reaching the elevator when you heard it drift into a series of soft sighs. You hoped they’d at least think to lock the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viva Clintasha! Because EFF film canon, damn it.
> 
> ukrytiye = loosely means 'hideaway'


	12. Chapter 12

You showered quickly, changing into a pair of jeans and a sweater, and decided to venture out into the common rooms to find something to do. It had been a quiet few days at the Tower, no sudden missions or emergency rescues cropping up, and everyone seemed to be enjoying the downtime; that was certainly the only explanation you could find for Natasha’s sudden openness. Then again, you thought, as nice as it was to keep something like that to yourself, perhaps she too needed a moment or two where she didn’t feel it necessary to hide it.

Relationships could be weird that way.

You found Steve in the lounge, which was otherwise empty. He was relaxed on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, with the local news playing on the television. That, you had realized, was Steve’s poison when it came to television; he had news programming playing more than anything else, the stalwart Captain keeping an eye on the world he had sworn to protect. 

Smiling, you sidled up to the back of the couch next to where he sat and leaned forward, bracing your elbows on the leather cushioning.

“Hey,” you said quietly, and when he turned at the sound he returned your smile.

“There you are,” he said, and leaned forward to brush his lips against yours. This… _thing_ … between you, it hadn’t gone much past that since the kiss outside your door, but you found yourself kind of enjoying taking it slow. There was no pressure, no rush to get physical; Natasha had told you about Steve’s past, about the woman he had loved and lost twice, once to time and again to age. Whatever it was you were feeling, you were fine with it being on his terms.

“Here I am,” you agreed. You smiled at him and leaned in for another chaste kiss.

“I’m sorry I missed your training this morning,” Steve said, eyes following as you walked around the back of couch to take a seat next to him. He threw an arm over your shoulder and you settled in, comfortably pressed against his side.

“No worries,” you told him. “Nat stepped up to keep me company. She was in a weirdly great mood today, too.”

Steve gave a soft chuckle and leaned in close to your ear. “I think it’s some kind of anniversary for them,” he said, referencing the actual worst kept secret among former secret agents and spies.

You snorted. “That would explain it,” you agreed. “I had to scoot out of the gym quickly to save my virgin eyes from a far more intimate view of Clint than I will ever need.” 

Steve laughed, running his fingertips absently up and down your bare arm, drawing goosebumps in their wake. When you met his gaze you saw that his eyes had been following the movement, and he gave a small smile before continuing the motion; you didn’t mind it a bit.

“So tell me, Cap,” you said, gesturing towards the television with a nod of your head. “Is the world still turning?” He sighed, the smile drawing away from his face as he turned his attention to the stony-faced talking head on the screen. 

“Just barely,” he told you. “There’s always something, you know? Sometimes I think things were simpler when I was a kid, but then I think, maybe we just didn’t know everything that was happening.”

 

You glanced back at the screen, noting that the footage playing was a helicopter shot over a large bank in Manhattan. You frowned; you hadn’t kept up much with news media for the past few days, and was unsure of what was happening. 

“To recap today’s top story,” the newscaster droned as the screen changed back to his profile. “An explosion at the First Provincial Bank of New York has been reported while police negotiators were on the scene. Early this morning, we are told a gunman entered the bank and took several customers and bank personnel hostage, demanding access to the bank’s main vault.”

Steve swore under his breath, and shook his head.

“We now go live to our reporter on the scene, Ashley Ward. Ashley, what can you tell us?”

The view changed to a blonde in a blue dress, standing in front of what looked to be a police barricade. There was a flurry of activity behind her and at least one fire truck on the scene.

“Thank you, Pat,” the woman, presumably Ashley, droned in a tone of voice too bubbly and high-pitched for the serious subject matter. 

“Our sources are telling us that this man, Benito Severini, entered the First Provincial Bank building a little after nine this morning,” she went on, and a police mugshot of the apparent robber was superimposed to the left of her face.

You couldn’t hold back the gasp when you saw a familiar face appear. “Benny?!” you said incredulously.

“Mr. Severini alerted a bank teller inside that he was carrying an explosive device that would be detonated if he was not given access to the bank’s central vault. During police negotiations, the manager inside allowed Mr. Severini to enter the vault, at which time he apparently told the manager to run, and detonated the device he was carrying.”

“Tragic, Ashley, simply tragic,” Pat warbled over a split screen. “Do the police have any idea of motive? Are there any injuries?”  
“There is no motive at this time, Pat, and first responders on the scene are reporting only minor cuts and abrasions, as the blast was apparently contained within the bank vault…”

Steve shook his head in disgust and turned off the television. “See? This is what I mean. Who thinks to do something like that?”

You were shaking your head, your blood running cold. This was wrong, all wrong. Steve had no way to see it; his was a world of heroes, missions to save the Earth from threats from within and without. You knew the gutter, the criminal underbelly.

You knew Benny Severini. You knew his wife, and his two daughters. You knew his little pawn shop in Hell’s Kitchen. You’d been there, joked with him at the counter. Talked about the weather. 

“Steve,” you said, grabbing his arm, a sick feeling deep in the pit of your stomach. “Steve, something’s wrong.”

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up a little straighter. “Are you sick? Did you hurt yourself when you were training? I can take you to the med bay, get…”

“No, it’s not that,” you said, shaking your head. “That guy. Benny. I know him -- knew him. He’s a low level fence, operates out of a little pawn shop. This isn’t his kind of schtick.” Steve’s eyes narrowed. You didn’t talk much about your past; you knew it made him uncomfortable.

“So he’s a criminal?” he asked slowly.

“He’s a fence,” you repeated. You turned to look at Steve, trying to make him understand. “Steve, this isn’t something he would do. He’s a good guy, he’s got a couple of kids at home. It doesn’t make sense.”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “A good guy? Is is that far of a stretch?” he asked. “From fencing stolen property to…”

“To what?” you asked sharply. “Robbing banks? Blowing yourself up? What, because he isn’t a good little soldier like you, it should be a hop, skip, and a jump to grand larceny and suicide bombing?”

You stood quickly, suddenly angry. You had been trying to tell him something important; whatever had happened at the bank, it couldn’t have been engineered by Benny. Something else had to be going on, but all Steve could do was look at a mugshot and see a criminal.

“I didn’t mean…” he began, surprised at your sudden anger. He stood and moved to follow you. “Don’t go, please, let me…”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” you said, backing away from his reach with your hands up. “I just… please give me some space.”

You heard him softly call after you, “If that’s what you want.”

You didn’t turn around to respond.


	13. Chapter 13

You were fuming. You didn’t want to be angry, but you couldn’t help it. You had been worried in the back of your mind that this thing between you and Steve would suffer for your chosen profession; it wasn’t as though you had rolled out of bed one day and decided you wanted to be a master thief, but your life had just progressed that way. And you were good at it -- damn good. It wasn’t as though those skills would translate well to any other lifestyle.

You couldn’t see yourself giving up the adventure for the off chance that a superhero would fall for you. And you couldn’t see Steve ever resigning himself to the fact that you were, by all facets, a career criminal.

The fact that he had dismissed your concerns about Benny added further sting to the whole situation. Something was terribly wrong there, you were certain of it; if he wouldn’t listen, well, then you would just have to figure it out on your own.

 

For the first time since arriving, you felt that your days in the Tower were numbered. It had been fun, playing house with Natasha and her friends, getting close to Steve, but it wasn’t something that could last. You knew that much now.

You concentrated on your training, trying to speed the process along as quickly as possible. The doctors in the med bay remarked that your mobility was progressing nicely, but warned you away from working at it too hard; you could just as easily do more damage if you weren’t careful. You understood the concern, but you had to get away, and you needed to be at your best to do so.

You were going to get that damn diamond again, the Star of Eternity. You wouldn’t be guilted into returning it this time, either. No, you were going to pull it apart yourself, removing each and every diamond from the setting.

And you were going to mail them, one by one, to Steve. After all, you were a _thief_. He couldn’t think it that far of a stretch for you to be so vindictive, right?

 

At your request, Tony had ordered a set of parallel bars to be installed in the gym. They were sturdier than the uneven bars and didn’t bend and pull to accommodate swings and jumps. A good deal of your success in your chosen trade had come on the heels of your ability to hold still and hide; more than one occasion had found you perched above a security guard’s head, holding a handstand on a pipe and waiting for them to pass.

You held that pose now, seeing how long you could keep it before the ache in your shoulder became too much. You had come to realize that it was always going to hurt, at least a little; your only real option was to learn how to deal with the pain. Sweat was beading on your forehead and you took slow deep breaths to manage the building ache in your muscles and joint. Six minutes was the longest you had managed so far, and you wouldn’t feel secure in the ability until you could handle it for at least eight.

You were still counting off the seconds when the door to the gym opened and Bucky walked in, a towel slung around his neck and his prosthetic arm gleaming in the afternoon sun. He spotted you quickly, eyeing you warily as he retreated to a weight bench just across from the parallel bars; you watched as he pulled a roll of gauze from the pocket of his sweatpants and began wrapping his hands, preparing no doubt to pummel a punching bag for a while.

The seconds ticked on, and a slow tremor started in your bad arm. Knowing it would only get worse, you relaxed your position, swung your legs out and launched off the bars, landing solidly on your feet on the mats. Just under seven minutes; not too bad, considering.

“You some kinda acrobat now?” Bucky asked, breaking the silence. His tone was far from friendly, but it wasn’t particularly mean either. He had been friendlier in the past, and you had a good suspicion as to why that had changed.

“Something like that,” you agreed, flexing your hands a moment before turning to reach for a water bottle. You could feel him watching you; you’d expected one of them, either him or Sam, to give you a talking-to over everything with Steve at some point. You were just surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. You sighed and turned to face him, one hand on your hip as the other still held your water bottle. 

“You got something you want to say to me, Buck?” you asked plainly.

He eyed you a long moment before responding. “How much longer you looking to stick around?” he asked.

“Just until I’m ready to get back to work,” you replied. You rolled your shoulders and started stretching, the way they had shown you in the med bay, to keep your muscles loose and pliant after your workout.

“Maybe you oughta think about taking a powder a little sooner than that,” Bucky advised. He didn’t meet your gaze, his eyes instead on his hands as he tore the gauze he had been winding around his flesh hand and tucked the edge alongside his wrist. Glancing up at you, he added, “Maybe it’d be better for everybody if you did.”

 

You rolled your eyes and took another long pull on your water bottle, swallowing the blessedly cool liquid before responding. “If Steve wants me to go, he can tell me himself. He doesn’t need to be sending his errand boy.”

“You think he put me up to it?” Bucky replied, shaking his head. “Not a chance, doll. I’m just tired of seeing the kid beatin’ himself up over you. He’s got enough on his shoulders, doesn’t need to be dealing with your kind of mess.”

You laughed, completely without humor. “Well why don’t you run and tell him that, instead of me?” you said, grabbing your own towel from where you had slung it over one of the uneven bars. “If you’re so ready to be doling out advice, try it with someone who’ll listen.”

Bucky snorted. “You think that little punk ever listens to a word I tell him? Shit, if he had, neither of us would be here today. He’d have settled down with some mousy schoolteacher seventy-some years ago, and I’d have never made it outta the war.”

“And I’d have bled out in the lobby,” you replied with a shrug. “The point still stands. I’m not going to be bullied into rushing out the door. I’m here on Natasha’s invitation, with Tony’s permission, and if one of them wants to tell me to hit the bricks then I will. Otherwise you can keep your opinions to yourself, Bucky Barnes.”

If you had been angry before, you were livid now. Imagine the gall of that egotistical scrap-metal monstrosity of daring to try and tell you… but you stopped, and sighed, shoulders slumped as you walked back to your room for a shower. 

Bucky hadn’t meant any real harm, you knew that. He was just trying to protect his friend, just as he always had; Steve had told you about their past, the more intimate details that couldn’t be found in a history book or a museum diorama. Steve had been a kid made for trouble, and he had been lucky to have a pal like Bucky to pull his ass out of the fire, time and again.

But Steve couldn’t be all that bothered by your presence; he hadn’t so much as looked twice at you since the day you told him to back off. 

You’re certain you would have noticed if he had.


	14. Chapter 14

You tried to keep a lid on everything, but eventually you had to spill. Natasha knew that something had gone on between you and Steve -- everyone in the Tower did, really -- but she didn’t know the circumstance, and she certainly hadn’t heard about your conversation with Bucky. That part seemed to anger her more than anything.

“I swear to god, I’m going to rip off that metal arm and shove it up his…” she ranted, seated on the couch besides you in the little lounge area in the rooms that you had been given.

You gave a tired laugh and rubbed your eyes. “Just leave it,” you said with a sigh. “I get where he’s coming from. Most of this is on me. I’m sorry.”

The redhead frowned. “What are you apologizing for?” she asked.

“I’m the guest here, right?” you said. “I’ve intruded on the whole little… coexistence-thing you guys have working and mucked up everything. I should never have stayed on.”

“I seem to recall inviting you, more than once,” Natasha replied. That much was true; you’d received a text some months prior, alerting you to her permanent relocation to the city, and inviting you to stop by when you could. It was difficult to have friends, living the sort of lives that you both led; you could see why she would like a little companionship outside of her teammates now and again.

Truth was, you had been thinking of stopping in for a few weeks when you’d made your little dalliance with diamonds and bullets.

You leaned forward, forehead in your hands. “I’m sure that invitation wasn’t also a free pass to screw around with you’re… whatever it is you call them. Co-workers. Teammates?” 

“Friends,” she offered. “And really, ptichka. How well do I know you? Did you think I wouldn’t have guessed that the good Captain would make you go all starry-eyed?”

You snorted, and flopped back in your seat. “Glad somebody saw it coming. Next time, warn a girl, would you?”

“So I was right?” she asked, nudging you with her elbow. “You do care for him, don’t you?”

“He’s just so… so god damn charming,” you relented, lips pursed in frustration. It was downright irritating, is what it was. “If it was just a physical thing I could deal, but… ugh, he’s so frustrating. He’s perfect. Like, almost completely perfect. And it’s driving me crazy because I am so angry at him but at the same time… ugh!”

Natasha was watching you with a look of amusement on her face, and you could tell she was trying hard not to laugh. Given the sort of things she faced on a daily basis, you knew that encountering the frustrated whining of a friend with an overwhelming crush on a superhero must seem a welcome respite. 

“Shut up,” you told her, even though she hadn’t spoken. “It’s not funny.”

“Calm down,” she told you, and patted your thigh before standing. “You’ll feel better after the party tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“What party?” you asked. It was all news to you.

“Tony’s… thing? I don’t remember what it’s called,” Natasha told you, walking towards your small kitchen in search of a drink. She returned with a bottle of juice pulled from your fridge, and sat down in the easy chair across from the couch. “‘Annual Autumnal Gala’ or something pretentious like that. He brings all his stockholders and prospective investors in, showers them in booze and caviar, and waits for the checks to roll in.”

“Definitely doesn’t sound like my kind of gig,” you told her, chuckling softly. “Unless I was there to lift a few wallets and watches.”

“I think Tony would appreciate if you did not do that,” Natasha replied, echoing your chuckle with a small one of her own. “But I am here to cordially invite you -- or as Tony put it, demand your presence.”

You shook your head. “That seems like maybe not the best idea. I’ll send my regrets.”

“No, you will send yourself, with bells on,” she replied succinctly, eyebrows raised, daring you to disagree.

You sighed. “You’re not going to let me get out of this, are you?” you asked.

Natasha smirked. “Not a chance, ptichka. Not a chance.”

 

You had only one card to play and you had hoped it would be enough to help you escape this ridiculous party that Natasha and Tony were insisting you attend. Bruce and Bucky were each given a free pass not to attend, and it irritated you that they should be spared the annoyance if you were being forced to go. 

Your idea had struck in a timely enough manner, and you kept your mouth shut about it, waiting to reveal your plan until the very morning of Tonya’s gala. You had decided that the simplest option was best: you would just tell them that you had nothing to wear, and refuse any attempts to procure an appropriate dress. It was a black-tie event, after all, and you had spent your time in the Tower primarily dressed in either jeans or workout clothes.

It wasn’t as though leggings and a sports bra would cut it on the dancefloor.

You were in fairly upbeat spirits the morning of the event, practically bouncing on your heels as you waited for an appropriate time to inform Natasha of your sudden need to decline the invitation, but you forced yourself to at least sleep until a reasonable hour. An early bird you were not, and Natasha would know something was up if you set foot outside of your bedroom before at least eight o’clock. When the time finally rolled around, you bounced out of bed and quickly dressed, ready to search out the redhead and explain your predicament, but stopped cold when you opened your bedroom door and saw a wide white box sitting on the coffee table.

Swearing under your breath, you ventured over and noticed a note on top, written in Natasha’s familiar handwriting: “ _You really didn’t think I wouldn’t have you covered, did you_?”

You had to laugh at that. Some days, Natasha seemed like any other friend you could have made in high school or college, someone to chat with, share your worries, reassure one another. It could be easy to forget her calculating, shrewd mind, and her eye for detail that others might overlook. You would one day have to learn that you could never pull one over on the Black Widow, try as you might.

You sighed, resigning yourself to the inevitable. If you were going to have to make an appearance at Tony’s shindig, you hoped at least that Nat had gotten you a killer dress. Opening the box, you saw that she had not disappointed.

You weren’t sure what the dress was made of, the fabric light as air and soft to the touch; it was silver, shimmering in the morning sunlight and pooled in the box like a puddle of liquid mercury. You could tell just from glancing at it in the box that it was beautiful. Tucked at the bottom were a pair of heels colored the same as the dress, looking as though they were made from cut diamond; they were taller than you generally liked to wear, open-toed slingbacks that glittered in the light. Gorgeous.

Nat wasn’t without flaws, but her taste in formalwear, it would seem, was impeccable.

The day seemed to pass far too quickly, and before you knew it, you were blow-drying your hair and trying to find something artful and elegant to do with it. You hadn’t even realized how much stuff you had amassed in the borrowed suite of rooms where you had been staying until you started rummaging through bathroom drawers for your cosmetics and hair products. 

It had been a long time, you realized, since you had any place to set down permanent roots. What few personal belongings you owned were kept in storage, and most of your storage unit was taken up by things you had taken and never sold off. 

You may have developed a bit of a hoarding problem when it came to art, particularly anything by the impressionists.

Suddenly, the idea of leaving the Tower struck you as a lot less appealing than it had hours before; it was nice to have a space that was your own, something to come home to. You decided to leave it to worry about tomorrow. Tonight, you had a party to attend and a gorgeous dress to wear. The rest could wait for the morning.

The dress was sleeveless and draped across your chest, the soft fabric just high enough to cover the bullet wound scar on your shoulder. It hugged your curves in all the right places, tucked to define your waist, the hem settling at the floor at just the right length when you wear the shoes that came with it. It was the back that really made the dress, open and cut so low that you were concerned it might reveal a bit too much; you were surprised to even find a pair of panties in your dresser drawer that didn’t reach beyond the back cut of the dress.

You had never been terribly proud of your looks. You knew you weren’t too bad on the eyes, but didn’t consider yourself much of a beauty. But looking in the mirror, you had to pause. The dress seemed to bring out the best of everything in you: your hair, your eyes, even your skintone. Everything looked better, deeper, brighter. Perfect.

At least one good thing would come out of this party: you’d be damned if Steve didn’t eat his heart out when he saw you.


	15. Chapter 15

The gala was already in full swing as you left your suite; though it was happening several floors above you, you could hear a steady thrum of music and conversation drifting through the building. You made your way to the elevator and realized you had no idea where you needed to go.

“JARVIS,” you said, addressing the building’s genteel AI. “Could you take me to Tony’s party?”

“Of course, Miss Nox,” JARVIS replied, and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Tony had programmed JARVIS to address you that way some weeks prior, and refused to change it. 

 

The elevator opened into a ballroom decked in copper, gold, and other colors of autumn. There had to be more than a couple hundred guests milling about, with staff brought on for the event interspersed with trays of food and drinks; one wall was lined with a string of bars and small cocktail tables, with short staircases down to an inset floor for dancing and dining. The opposite wall was all glass, floor to ceiling windows with a view of the city at night, and lined with an outer balcony where a few souls braved the chill in the air to drink and smoke out among the stars.

You took a deep breath and stepped out of the elevator; you had already spotted a few faces who had been on your ‘hit list’ in years past, including the man whose armed security had led you to taking up residence in the Tower in the first place. You couldn’t help but feel that was a little gag on Tony’s part.

 

Your eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face, and lit upon Natasha after you had only taken a few steps out of the elevator. The former spy looked stunning, as you had no doubt she would. Her dress was black, strapless and flowing, with crystalline points of light that seemed to shimmer as she moved. It almost seemed as though the fabric were cut from the night sky itself. She nodded you over when she saw you, and you deftly made your way through the crowd to join her beside one of the bars.

“You’re late,” she told you dryly.

“Fashionably late,” you corrected, and she rolled her eyes, balancing one hand on her hip.

“I had begun to wonder if you’d even show,” Natasha replied, shaking her head as her eyes raked up and down your form. “Would have been a shame if you hadn’t. Waste of that fantastic dress.”

“Admittedly, you picked a good one,” you told her, glancing down again at the airy silver fabric.

Natasha shook her head. “Oh, that wasn’t me. I just delivered it this morning,” she told you. “This,” she went on, gesturing towards your gown, “Was all Tony.”

You raised an eyebrow at her words. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m being set up for something?”

“Because you probably are,” Natasha told you with a smirk.

The sudden sound of a throat being cleared turned your attention to a woman standing nearby, who you hadn’t even realized had been speaking with Natasha before you arrived. She was blonde, her hair falling in elegant curls around a squared face, and wearing a dark blue dress in a cut and style that, while lovely, seemed to indicate that it might have been in mothballs for as long as Steve had been in ice. That thought made your memory click and you put on a friendly smile.

“Sharon, isn’t it?” you asked.

The agent smiled politely in return, saying your own name in greeting. She paused a moment and added, “I hadn’t realized that Tony invited his accounting staff to these things.”

Natasha snorted; you had all but forgotten that Tony had been explaining away your presence at the Tower to anyone who might ask by naming you as an employee of Stark Industries, “working in the finance department”. It was something of an in-joke: after all, you were in the habit of handling a fair bit of Tony’s cash. It was just that you garnered it by lifting his wallet and handing it back to him at awkward or amusing moments. It had become something of a tradition between the two of you.

“I didn’t realize he invited field agents,” you replied glibly with a shrug of your shoulders. “So I guess we’re both lucky.” 

You hadn’t meant to be rude, exactly, but she could have been a little more polite. And all things considered, you were a bit on edge yourself. So far as you could remember, Sharon had an eye for the Captain, and though you had resigned to wash your hands of that whole mess, it still grated on you.

Maybe.

Just a little.

Oh hell, who were you kidding? You didn’t even know her, and you hated her. She was everything you weren’t -- she was the prototypical good girl, someone fighting on the same side as Steve, someone who would hold the same ideals that were close to his heart. And what were you, but a near-felon (the charges never stuck) with a knack for getting your paws on things that didn’t belong to you?

Of course, Steve would take that moment to to walk up, drinks in hand. Sharon brightened immediately, a small pleased smile on her lips though her overall demeanor held a hint of excitement. She seemed even to stand a little taller, almost bouncing on her heels.

It took everything in you not to roll your eyes.

“Thank you, Steve,” Natasha said demurely, taking a glass from one of his hands. There was a hint of amusement to her voice and it made you frown. It was only then you pulled your attention away from Sharon and glanced at the Captain, who had apparently been staring at you with a soft expression, lips just barely parted and a look of surprise in his eyes.

“Good evening, Captain,” you said quietly, offering only a small smile.

 

He was wearing a tuxedo -- it was a black tie event, after all -- and it looked so fit and perfect on him that it was all you could do not to lose your breath. The lines of the suit made his shoulders seem even broader and his waist trim, his hair combed neatly back from his face. He cut a very dashing figure, and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of you.

Steve said your name quietly, so low that if you’d been standing any further away, you might not have heard it. His eyes had softened, affixed to yours with a magnetism that wouldn’t allow you to pull away. After a long moment, he cleared his throat and looked away, and you noticed that Sharon had placed a hand on his arm.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Steve told you, voice reaching a more normal tone. Strange to say, you thought, considering you were living only a floor apart in the Tower, but then you hadn’t spent much time around him as of late.

“You too, Captain,” you replied, pasting on your best smile. On a whim you leaned forward, pressing a kiss high on his cheekbone in greeting; it didn’t escape your notice when he closed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be such a stranger.”

Sharon was frowning. “Steve?” she asked.

Natasha coughed suddenly, and you were certain it was covering a laugh. She threw back the drink that Steve had brought her, downing it quickly, and set the empty glass on a nearby table.

“Come on, Nox,” she said, amusement still evident in her voice. “Let’s go circulate.” She hooked one of her arms through yours and steered you away from the other two. You couldn’t help but notice that Steve turned his head to watch you as you walked away, gaining a view of the full open back of your silver gown.

You had to suppress a smirk when you heard him swear under his breath.


	16. Chapter 16

“Typically I enjoy Sharon’s company, but even I have to admit, that was funny,” Natasha told you as you walked away, patting your arm where it was hooked through her own. “I’m afraid she has a great deal of hero-worship when it comes to Steve, not that I can blame her.”

You eyebrows rose at her comments. “Oh?” you asked dumbly, not sure how else to respond.

“You have to understand,” Natasha explained, pausing at a different bar further down the wall from where you had left Steve and Sharon. “She grew up with family stories about that great hero, Captain America. I’m sure it helped draw her into the business. Then after all of that, she meets him face to face? Anyone might develop a bit of a…”

“Schoolgirl crush?” you offered, nodding towards the bartender to get his attention.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Could say the same about you, ptichka.”

You frowned, turning your attention back to the bartender and ordering an old fashioned. The bartender was quick to make your order and handed it off to you with a wink and a smile; you winked back, and raised your glass to him before taking a drink.

Turning back to Natasha, you shook your head. “There’s a difference,” you told her, enjoying the slow burn of the whiskey you had swallowed. “I got to know the guy before I went all… stupid… over him.”

“I see that Sticky Fingers here likes her drinks like she likes her men: old fashioned,” Tony announced, grinning at his own clever interruption. Like Steve, he was decked out in his best, a trim-fit tuxedo that seemed perfectly tailored to his form, but his bow-tie was undone and hanging loose at his throat, with a button or two on his shirt already open, in spite of it being early in the evening.

“That is a terrible nickname,” you told him, and took another sip of your drink. “But,” you added, “it is a great album.”

Tony grinned. “That’s what I’m talking about. _Wild Horses_!” he exclaimed, and before you could respond, your drink was plucked out of your hand and pushed into Natasha’s, and he was dragging you out onto the dancefloor.

 

There was a string quartet on a low bandstand, playing a tune that was probably some classical masterpiece but one that you couldn’t recognize. Tony was surprisingly light on his feet, holding you close and swaying you around the dancefloor.

“I want you to know, I’m not trying to cop a feel,” he said, hand settled across the bare skin of your lower back. “But if I dive any lower I’m going to be palming your ass.”

You laughed. “Well you should have known better,” you replied. “Nat told me you picked out the dress. Thank you. Not just for this, for… everything.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me blush now, Nox.”

“Seriously,” you told him, as he slowed down to match the tempo of the changing song. “I’ve never really thanked you for all you’ve done for me. I want you to know, I’m grateful.”

“Tell you what,” Tony replied. “Get things back on track with Steve-O and we’ll call it even.”

“Oh, that’s not likely,” you replied, shaking your head. You tried not to sound bitter, you really did.

“Listen, he’s brooding,” Tony told you, curling his lip at the thought. “Brooding, kid. All the time. We get enough of that with the Buckmeister, we don’t need a pair of crabby old men running around the place. It’s cramping my style.”

“We’re too different,” you tried to explain. You liked Tony, you really did; beneath the arrogant exterior he often tried to project, he was funny, and sweet, and would go to the ends of the earth for the people he cared about. But you couldn’t expect him to understand. You couldn’t expect that of any of them.

“I’ll level with you,” Tony told you, glancing over to the side of the dancefloor. A beautiful redhead in a cream-colored dress stood there, drink in hand at the ready for when Tony finished dragging you around the floor. You hadn’t had much occasion to spend time with Pepper Potts, but she posed a striking figure, smiling gently at the man beside you. 

“Sometimes the people you never would expect to be perfect for you? They’re perfect. More than perfect. They’re what you need,” Tony said, and his lips lifted into the smallest of smiles when he met Pepper’s gaze. He glanced back and you, and shrugged. “Maybe Cap doesn’t realize that he needs a little less than a goody-two-shoes in his life, huh kid?”

You couldn’t agree with him -- experience had proven too much otherwise -- but you sighed and let the subject drop, engaging Tony in conversation about the party, the decorations, even the little orchestra he had arranged for the night. Tony preened with every compliment you paid, and when the music began to drop tempo into a slower piece, he steered you off to the side to greet Pepper. 

 

You chatted amiably for a while, enjoying their company, but gave them leave to take to the dance floor when you saw Pepper’s gaze drifting out among the dancers. You had planned to search out Natasha and a fresh drink but was stopped on your way across the room by a rather large framed man cutting across your path.

“So sorry, my dear,” he wheezed, turning to face you. You did your best to hold back the sudden impulse to recoil; standing before you was no other than the very man whose security team had chased you down with a pair of nine millimeter bullets to your shoulder joint. 

“Mr. Winslow, isn’t it?” you asked, forcing yourself to sound polite.

“Why yes indeed!” he told you, clearly pleased at the recognition. He was portly and bald, nose flat and rosy with drink, rivulets of sweat already crowning on his forehead. “Are you a fan of my work?”

“I’ve seen many of your books, yes,” you responded. You had seen them of course, just never deigned to read them. Augustus Winslow fancied himself an expert on family and relationships, selling millions of supposed self-help books and spending his plunder on jewels for his dour-faced wife and many, many mistresses.

“Always a pleasure to meet a fan, of course!” he said jovially, shaking your hand with his own meaty paws, then tugging on the grey brocade sleeve of his wife’s dress, pulling her closer to join the conversation. The woman was short and pug-faced, permanent worry lines crossing her forehead, and decked out in atrocious amount of jewelry. Her arms jingled with a series of jeweled bangles, her earlobes hung heavy with fatted gemstone earrings, and around her neck lay no less than the Star of Eternity itself -- or so Winslow might have her believe.

It took only a passing glance for you to see that it was paste: glass gems set in semi-precious metals, to give the illusion of being decked out in finery when the real jewels were locked away for safekeeping.

If he hadn’t outright sold them after they were returned.

“What a beautiful necklace!” you exclaimed, grinning perhaps a little too wide.

Mrs. Winslow drew her hand to her throat, clearly flattered. “Why thank you, dear girl,” she replied. “Augustus gave it to me as a gift, for our anniversary.”

“How generous,” you responded, sweetly as you could. You surreptitiously scanned the crowd bustling around you, searching for an escape. It was all good fun for a moment or two, but you didn’t like the way Winslow leered at you and his wife seemed a vapid bore. 

“Clint!” you called suddenly, noticing the archer as he slipped by, drink in hand. “There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you!”


	17. Chapter 17

He stopped in his tracks, clearly puzzled, and looked around to see if there were someone else you might be calling to. As if there were any other Clint in attendance you might be acquainted with at all. You turned back to Winslow and his wife and offered a short apology before hoisting the skirt of your gown an inch or two off the ground so that you might dash and catch up with Clint.

He gave you a quizzical look. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

“Oh, god, no,” you replied quickly, hooking your arm through his and following his stride. “You did everything right. I needed that rescue.”

“Huh. Didn’t think I’d get up to any rescue gigs in this getup,” Clint told you with a smile, glancing down as his suit. He too was dressed to the nines; his pants were black but his suit coat was a dark eggplant color, and his dress shirt dark and satiny, with a white mandarin collar. Leave it to Clint to go just a little bit against the grain.

“We can’t always find time to suit up,” a new voice interrupted, and you froze mid-step, lips parted in surprise. You gave a low exhale and turned to face him, putting on your best smile. “One of these days might find you jumping into the fray in your shorts, Clint.”

The archer laughed, but you only stared.

“Hello again Steve,” you said, hoping to sound congenial. “Just where is your lovely date?”

The Captain’s expression faltered, and he closed his eyes for the briefest of moments; you had the sneaking suspicion he was mentally counting to ten, to keep from launching into an angry response. When he opened his eyes again, his expression cleared.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked, reaching out a hand to your arm. He stopped just before touching, seeking fingertips hovering in the air just inches from you.

You swallowed hard. “Don’t know that we really have anything to discuss,” you replied.

Glancing back and forth between the two of you, Clint seemed to think the situation over a moment before holding both hands in the air in a position of surrender.

“I’m out,” he announced, taking two steps backwards. Clearly he could sense the tension between you and the Captain, and he wanted nothing to do with it. “Whatever happens now, you’re both on your own.”

Steve paid him no mind, only said your name, soft and pleading. He ventured his hand forward, fingertips just barely brushing against the skin of your arm and drawing out goosebumps you tried to ignore.

“Please,” he added quietly, and try as you might, you just could not deny him.

 

The balcony had been largely been abandoned, save for a few stalwart smokers who couldn’t give up their habit, not even to stay warm on the chill autumn night. Steve had asked several times if you were sure you wouldn’t be cold, offering up his coat, but you insisted that you would manage. You wanted the privacy for whatever it was he had to say, and the dancing and drink had left you warm in spite of the thin gauzy material of your gown. Besides, you didn’t know how well you’d manage to stick to your guns if draped in a coat bearing his body warmth and the scent of his cologne.

You had to suppress a smile as he opened the balcony door and moved to guide you through with a hand at the small of your back; Steve didn’t seem to know what to do, the gallantry of guiding your way warring with the intimacy of placing a firm palm against the soft bare skin that was revealed by your backless dress. You made the decision for him, stepping through quickly and waiting for him to follow.

The city was beautiful at night. Even though your logical mind knew of the trials and terrors of daily life in the Big Apple, the lights shining in the skyscrapers looked amazing against the backdrop of a clear starry sky. You sighed, long and deep, and could see the cloud of your warm breath breaching the cold night air. Turning away from the view, you looked back to Steve.

“You wanted to talk?” you asked.

“I… yeah,” he agreed, and nodded, but said no more. His eyes seemed to be searching you for something, some sign of what you were feeling, and you did your best to keep your expression stony and bland. When he didn’t speak again, you sighed and turned away, bracing both hands on the concrete rail of the balcony.

“Won’t she be wondering where you are?” you asked, voice a little more strained than you had hoped it would sound. 

You would be lying if you said it didn’t bother you. Sure, you had wanted to make him jealous -- give him an idea of what he couldn’t have. But you knew well enough to know that you were acting out of your own anger, your own longing. Much as you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t give a damn what Steve Rogers thought of you, you knew that it fiercely ate away at your heart.

You cared what he thought. You cared who he spoke to, who he danced with. You cared that he had shown up at Tony’s party with another girl on his arm. Because you wanted him to be sick over you, torn up and sleeping poorly. And you wanted all of that so it wouldn’t just be you living in that hell.

Steve sighed. “Sharon’s a sweet kid, but she’s not my date,” he told you, color beginning to ride high in his cheeks from the cold. “Tony gets pretty liberal with invites to these things, and she’s a… a friend.”

“A friend who’s head over heels for you,” you replied dully, crossing your arms over your chest. You weren’t pouting. Really, you weren’t. You cast your gaze downward, focusing on the shine of Steve’s shoes on the tiled balcony floor.

“I don’t know that that’s true,” he told you quietly, and you closed your eyes when you felt his hands brushing up and down your arms in a soothing gesture. “Can’t say it’d do her much good if it were. Seems I’ve been pretty hung up on somebody else for a while now.”

You closed your eyes but you didn’t look up, suddenly struck with the fear that this was a dream or some fantasy you’d concocted in the back of your mind. It couldn’t be possible, what you thought he was telling you. It just couldn’t.

“Problem is, I get a little too high-minded sometimes, at least that’s what Bucky tells me,” Steve continued. “Start thinking I know what’s best for everybody, get a line on what’s right or wrong and won’t budge from it.”

You glanced up at his words, clearly surprised. “Bucky?” you asked. Last you checked, the surly one-armed man was ready to pack you up and ship you out of the Tower and out of Steve’s hair for good.

“Got tired of seeing me moping, I think,” Steve told you, a small smile coming to his face. “Told me it was time I ‘got my shit together’ and told you how I feel. Reminded me that nothing is ever so black and white as I sometimes see it -- reminded me that there were a lot of people who’d’ve written him off the way I tried to do with your friend.”

You had to sigh. He was being so sweet, taking the blame for your stupid argument all on his own shoulders. You knew that it wasn’t all him -- you hadn’t reacted well. Natasha had indicated more than once that you might just have a little chip on your shoulder when it came to your chosen profession.

“I shouldn’t have expected you to understand,” you finally spoke up quietly. 

“I should have tried,” Steve told you. When you finally glanced up, looked into his eyes and saw how damned earnest he was, it was all you could do not to throw your arms around him then and there and kiss him dizzy. 

Apparently you were not nearly as over it all as you tried to believe.

Knowing there were too many prying eyes even on the near-abandoned balcony, and feeling the cool night breeze whipping across your bare back, you slipped one of your hands into his and smiled.

“Why don’t we go back inside?” you suggested. “I think they’re playing some music we could dance to.” 

Steve grinned. “I’d like that,” he told you, and led you back towards the door.


	18. Chapter 18

It seemed you spent the rest of the evening on the dancefloor, happily rounding the floor in Steve’s arms. You felt like a princess, like Cinderella at the ball; you could feel eyes on you, but you didn’t care, too caught up in the rush of it all to pay it any mind. You remembered fantasies from your youth, when things got bad or small-town loneliness overtook you, of being rescued and whisked away by some handsome prince, and for the first time in your life, you felt as though you were being allowed to experience that fairy tale. 

Tomorrow, things could go back to what they were. You would be a career criminal, alienated to a great degree from this man -- this hero -- who had so deftly captured your heart. You would learn to accept it. But for tonight? Tonight, you were the belle of the ball, on the arm of your very own Prince Charming.

 

You spotted Sharon in the crowd now and again, the expression on her face shifting from sour to sad as the evening progressed, and you couldn’t help but feel a little bit bad. Just seeing Steve approach her earlier in the evening had set an icy stone in the pit of your stomach; you couldn’t begrudge the girl for her feelings, or her disappointment. You had a feeling that Steve might have inadvertently led her on a bit, just by virtue of his attempts to be polite. 

You pushed those thoughts away for another day. Tonight, you were going to laugh and smile and dance in Steve’s arms. Whatever tomorrow might bring, you’d deal with it then.

 

You danced well into the night, pausing now and again for a drink or a chat with a friendly face. Tony sent you a knowing smirk each time you passed him, and Clint, seeing the tension had dropped away from between you and the Captain, had shot you a grin and a double thumbs-up from the bar. Beside him, Natasha rolled her eyes, but you could still see her smiling fondly at his antics. You supposed that Tony must have been right, to some degree; you never could be too sure who was going to be right for you in the long run.

It was well after midnight before the party really began to wind down; Tony was known to keep his events going on into the early morning hours, and few had taken their leave, but the quartet needed a break and the dancing had stopped, leaving guests to drink and chatter quietly around the room. You were done for, your feet aching from the too-high heels you were wearing, dizzied from dancing and drunk not on liquor but instead the company of the man at your side. When Steve asked quietly if you wanted to get away, you readily agreed, ignoring the sly side-eye that Tony sent your way as you left.

Steve slipped his hand into yours in the elevator, a simple, easy touch that shouldn’t have sent a flurry of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. No one else had entered after you, and when the doors closed, the small space offered a sense of intimacy that was nearly overwhelming.

“Did I tell you that you look beautiful tonight?” Steve asked with a smile, sounding almost shy.

You laughed and bumped him with your hip. “Maybe you did,” you said. “But it never hurts to hear it again, does it?” He turned to face you, brushing fallen strands of your hair away from your eyes.

“You look amazing,” he said softly. “I nearly lost my mind when I saw you. I couldn’t look away, not at all, all night long. Beautiful.”

You smiled and shook your head, and it was on the tip of your tongue to tell him that he was laying it on a little thick, when he slid his arm around your waist, flattened palm against your skin, and pulled you flush against him. 

 

It started chaste, like the small brushes of lips you’d exchanged in the days following your adventurous ride out into the rain, but quickly grew deeper, his free hand caressing your cheek and keeping you close, plush lips dancing a ballet against your own. It was happening again, that dizzy-butterfly feeling you’d had once before, but this time you didn’t hold back; you let yourself fall, giving in to the feeling that something was starting here, something you could never go back on. A short gasp escaped you when his lips moved to your throat, and you arched your back in reflex, pressing ever closer against him.

Neither of you had noticed that the elevator had stopped, or that the doors had opened; it took an interruption from JARVIS to catch your attention. You had never thought you’d see the day you’d hear an AI clear its throat.

“Pardon the interruption, Captain Rogers, but did you wish to exit now, or continue to another floor?” JARVIS asked.

Steve looked up at you and you both laughed. Watching the way his eyes lit in humor, fine lines crinkling at the corners, and the way his grin spread across his face was a memory you thought you’d hang onto for a good long while.

“Thank you, JARVIS,” Steve spoke up quietly. “We’ll exit here.” 

He slipped his hand into yours and guided you out into the corridor; the lights were dropped low, as it was a residential floor at the Tower and they were timed to dim in the late evening. You walked quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone who might have already retired for the evening, and stopped at a door that was as unremarkable as your own but fell on the opposite side of the hallway from where yours would be. It was only then that you realized that you had followed Steve to his own private suite of rooms.

He leaned against his doorframe and pulled you in again, skating his lips across yours in just such a teasing way as to draw out a frustrated sigh. You felt him smile against your lips before allowing you to take control of the kiss, and you did all you could to tease back, tracing the curve of his smile with feather-light presses of your lips and slipping your arms around him beneath his suit jacket, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin material of his dress shirt. It drew a deep groan from his lips, and he rested his forehead against yours.

“Come to bed with me,” Steve said, voice barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t a command, or a request; just a statement, telling you what he wanted, giving you the invitation and the choice to pursue what he was asking. You could see it there in his eyes, the way they had darkened as they looked at you; you could feel it in his hands, tracing a path up and down your back, slipping across your bare skin and drawing shivers in their wake. There you were at the precipice again; it was time to decide if you were ready to fall.

You stepped back and cocked your head to the side, watching the way his eyes dimmed at the movement. He had begun to pull his arms away from you when you smiled, and nodded towards his door.

“Going to open the door, Captain?” you asked.


	19. Chapter 19

He didn’t bother to turn on any lights. From what you could tell, as he guided you through the moonlit rooms, the style of the place seemed a mixture of modern and old, as though in decorating it had been dressed to provide maximum modern convenience while combined with an aesthetic that Steve would find familiar and comfortable. You knew that had to be at least partially Tony’s handiwork. 

You kicked your shoes off at the door, holding up the skirt of your gown as you walked barefoot on the plush carpet, moving in silence. Steve took off his jacket and threw it over the back of a kitchen chair, loosening his tie as he walked towards you. You leaned against the back of his couch as Steve made his way towards you, a small smile playing across your features at his approach.

“C’mere, darlin’,” he said, the formality of his speech falling away. 

Steve made no pretense, taking you by the wrist and drawing you forward until you laughed, crashing into his chest. You remembered this now, the feel of his hard muscle against your body, the way it made your heart thud in your rib cage.

“Been drivin’ me crazy, you know that?” he told you, while you let your hands wander, pulling at the buttons on his shirt, feeling warm and wild and desperate to feel his skin against yours.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, wanting to hear more. It was more intoxicating than any drink, seeing Steve so loose and unraveled like this. 

“Had half a mind to ask your name, that first day I saw you in the lobby. Before you just about fell into my arms,” he said, growing more bold and letting his hands drift down to the thin fabric of your dress that covered your backside. “All those times I’d see you, sitting in the lounge, legs spread out on the couch… god, it was everything I could do not to hit my knees, beg you for a taste.”

You half gasped, half groaned out his name at his words. All composure was shattered then, your pulse pounding in your veins at the words slipping so easily from his lips. The idea of what was running through his mind with every small smile, every friendly nod that had passed between the two of you was almost too much.

Steve walked you backwards towards his bedroom, shedding clothing as he went: shoes near the door, shirt tossed to the floor. You’d made short work of the buttons and enjoyed sliding the fabric over his shoulders, watching the way he let his eyes close at your touch. Emboldened, he reached for you, searching the seams and straps of your dress until you smiled and guided his hands to the small hidden clasp at your neck. Once his deft fingers opened the little silver clasp, the dress slid from your skin and puddled at your feet on the floor, leaving you open and exposed to his gaze and his touch. You stood before him in nothing more than a pair of simple white lace panties that rode low on your hips, feeling the weight of his gaze as it slipped across your skin.

“So beautiful,” Steve said, voice low and thick with want. 

 

You’d been with soldiers before. It was always rough and fast; it seemed to come with the territory. If you spent your days fighting, wondering if you’d live to see another sunrise, you’d take your pleasure quick and hard, wherever you could find it. It was what you had expected from Steve, when you dared to think about it. How wrong you had been.

He took his time, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of skin available to him. You reciprocated whenever the opportunity presented itself, but it was clear that he wanted to take this time to acquaint himself with your body. He whispered praises into your skin, marveled at every freckle, every dimple, wound you up at every turn until you could barely breathe and then kissed and soothed you at the come down.

Steve cradled you against his chest, rocking into you in a smooth fluid motion that stole your senses away. You wrapped your arms around his neck, just wanting to touch him more, needing him closer. He sighed soft words into your ear, things most eloquent and profane, and you’ve never heard anything more erotic in your life. You’re near the edge again and you whimper, wanting more and wanting it never to end. Steve is peering down at you, sweat beading on his face, breathing fast and hard.

“Let me hear you,” he said, even as you arch against the mattress, bucking your hips into every thrust. “Please, babydoll… need to hear you… c’mon, make some noise for me…”

With that, it was like the floodgates opened. Every swallowed back cry, every sigh held in with a bite of your lip, all of it set free, gasped into the air between you. Steve echoes you on every moan and soon you feel weightless and free, pleasure rocketing up and down your spine as you fall over that precipice together.

You had learned the night in the cabin that Steve was tactile, that he liked to hold you close and feel the contact of your skin against his own while he slept. That night was no different, and you slept more soundly than you had in longer than you could remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter. Just didn't seem to fit cutting it in with the next bit.


	20. Chapter 20

The morning light brought with it grogginess and confusion, a few seconds of bafflement at the sleeping form curled around you until you remembered and a wide, silly smile crept onto you face. You couldn’t keep yourself from leaving a kiss on Steve’s cheek before sliding out of his embrace and searching out something to wear; clearly, the silver gown was more of an evening look and you weren’t entirely sure where your panties had landed -- or if they were even in one piece. You raided Steve’s dresser for a t-shirt and pair of boxers before heading out to the kitchen to make coffee.

The coffeemaker was stainless steel and nearly pristine; Steve tended to spend his mornings in the common areas if he was home, and wasn’t one to entertain visitors very often. It took only a moment or two of rummaging through cabinets before you found filters and an unopened can of coffee. Once filled with water from the tap and set to begin perking, you leaned against the kitchen island and glared at the machine, as though willing it to move a little faster. 

 

You hadn’t drank all that much the night before but it had been enough to leave you with a small lingering headache that you knew a healthy dose of caffeine would cure. Apart from that, you felt amazing; you’d slept well and your muscles had a pleasant sort of ache, the kind you would feel after a good run or a satisfying workout. You smirked to yourself at the thought: it had been a fairly satisfying workout, after all. The faint finger-shaped bruises on your hips and love-bites on your throat and thighs were testament enough to that.

You opened another cabinet in search of a coffee cup and had to smile. It seemed that Steve had been collecting souvenir mugs in his off hours, and you pulled out one from the Met and another branded with the FDNY shield, setting them on the counter. You were reaching into the cupboard for the sugar -- Steve seemed to use an unholy amount of the stuff -- when the front door opened.

“Making yourself right at home?” an acerbic voice asked, and you rolled your eyes.

“I’m not the one waltzing in the door without knocking, Bucky,” you replied. He extended his reach beyond yours and plucked the sugar canister from the shelf, setting it beside the mugs you had already laid out on the counter. You bit your tongue to keep from saying something rude and moved to pull another mug from the cabinet; it bore the cartoon image of a reindeer gyrating around an enormous candy cane with the words ‘Pole Dancer’ written in glittery green script, a holiday gift from Clint the year prior. Bucky could use that one.

“We have kind of an open door policy around here,” Bucky told you with half a smile. “In spite of there being a crook running around these days.”

“Ha. Ha. So funny,” you told him flatly, pouring out the newly perked coffee into the three mugs you had set out. You shoved the reindeer cup at him, glaring at the way he chuckled at your response. “Why are you even here again?”

You knew that Steve and Bucky were close -- everyone did -- but each time you looked at the former Hydra asset, all you could think of was the day in the gym when he more or less tried to hand you your walking papers. You’d been sending him dagger eyes each time you’d met after that, unable to help how much he’d angered you. It wasn’t even the gall of his suggestion that you leave, it was the underlying idea that you were somehow bad for Steve, that your presence there was a detriment to the great Captain America.

An insult like that was a little too easy to take to heart.

“I figured Stevie’d either be frustrated enough to go put his first through a few punching bags this morning, or be shufflin’ around with a dopey smile on his face cos he’d finally pulled his head out of his ass,” Bucky responded, response more casual than you expected. He busied himself as he spoke, over-sugaring his own coffee before dropping an ice cube in it for good measure. When he closed the freezer door he turned to face you, back braced against the inside counter. “Glad to see you got your own head screwed back on straight,” he added.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” you asked, eyes narrowed. There had been no powdered creamer to be found in the cabinets, so you opened Steve’s fridge and removed a carton of milk, pouring a scant amount into your coffee cup before returning it to its place.

You took a sip of your own coffee and then turned to the cup you had poured for Steve. You doled out two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and stirred them in, waiting for Bucky to answer you.

“Two more,” he told you, smirking. “And what I mean is… hell, everyone saw you two makin’ eyes at each other from the moment you showed up. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Just don’t think anyone figured on you being such a pain in the ass and gettin’ Steve all riled up. Was about ready to knock your thick skulls together if I had to.”

You doctored Steve’s coffee as instructed, and turned back towards Bucky. “You told me to leave,” you pointed out.

Bucky snorted. “Only ‘cos I knew you’d never listen to me, toots.”

“‘Toots’?” Steve echoed, ambling out of the bedroom in a pair of sweatpants, rubbing his eyes and pausing to yawn. “Kind of early for a visit, isn’t it Bucky?”

Bucky chuckled softly. “Yeah yeah, I’ll take my coffee and run, leave you two to it,” he said, and headed for the door. “Try not to wear him out, doll. Still got a world that needs lookin’ after,” he added with a laugh, and slipped out into the corridor, coffee in hand, closing the door behind him.

You turned to Steve, ready to say something rude about his best friend, when you had to stop short. There was that big dopey smile that Bucky had mentioned, plastered across Steve’s face and lighting up his eyes. You bit your lip, trying to stop yourself from grinning in return; you were reminded of the night in the med bay, when a head injury had left him senseless and sweet, seeming outright adorable.

“Borrowed some of your clothes,” you said with half a smile. “Hope you don’t mind.”

He made his way towards you, making a great show of looking you up and down before settling his arms around you, nuzzling at your shoulder where it poked through the collar of the borrowed shirt.

“Looks better on you than it ever did on me,” he said, voice low. 

“Calm down there, soldier,” you told him, playfully swatting at his backside as you slipped out of his embrace. “You keep that up and your coffee is going to get cold.”

Steve found the steaming cup on the counter and wrapped his hands around it, sighing at the warmth. He took a long drink and hummed in appreciation, giving you that same dopey smile as he tipped the cup in thanks.

“You’re awful smiley this morning, Captain,” you teased, unable to help yourself. You had half-expected the morning to be an awkward affair, with lots of faux pas and wondering where you stood. You found it was quite the opposite; you felt as comfortable there as you would have in your own rooms, and pleased for the company.

“Pretty girl spent the night, made me coffee while wearin’ my clothes,” Steve told you in response. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Of course he had to phrase it that way. You sighed and shook your head, abandoning your half-empty mug on the counter top. Steve watched with a look of calm puzzlement as you closed the space between you, gently pulling the mug from his hands and setting it beside your own. He seemed to get the picture when you leaned up to kiss him, standing on tip-toe in bare feet to reach him.

Steve tasted sugar-sweet and warm, like his coffee. His eyes were dark when you pulled away, following you as you took steps towards the living room. You paused at the end of the kitchen floor tiling and glanced over your shoulder, holding out your hand. Steve took it and followed you into the living room, where you promptly pushed at his chest to seat him on the couch.

“What…?” he started to say, and you climbed to sit in his lap. “...Oh.”

You ran your fingers over the faint marks you had left on him the night before, little bruises and bites that had made him shiver and beg. They had faded already, pale remains of what they were. Steve watched your fingers ghosting over each and gave you a sheepish smile.

“I heal pretty quickly,” he explained. “I didn’t even think… guess that kind of thing’s not going to stick around very long. Shame, too.”

You shrugged. “Oh, that’s alright,” you told him. “You’ll just have to see me pretty regularly for touch-ups, is all. Keep’em fresh.” 

His laughter at your words faded into a groan as you set out to do just that.


	21. Chapter 21

After Tony’s party, there didn’t seem to be a timeline for your exit any longer. You felt a little strange, perhaps no longer an interloper but still taking free room and board as though you were entitled. When you tried to broach the topic, the billionaire just rolled his eyes.

“Let it go, dear,” he said, focusing back on the newspaper in his hands. You had left Steve sleeping early one morning specifically to corner Tony at the breakfast table; he’d been working at some new project for days and periodically appeared early in the communal kitchen for coffee and a croissant.

“But I feel awful,” you tried to explain. “It’s not as though I’m contributing anything here.”

“You’re keeping Cap from brooding. We can’t ask for much more than that,” Tony responded dryly, smirking just slightly when you blushed.

“You have to let me do something,” you implored, pausing to think what you could offer. “Do you like art? Want a Picasso?” That seemed to catch his attention.

Tony raised an eyebrow at you over his newspaper. “You have a Picasso?” he asked.

“I have three,” you replied, nodding. “No one even knows they’re missing.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but seemed to think better of it, and shook his head, going back to his paper. “I’m not a fan of the surrealists, Nox.”

“What about impressionism?” you offered. “I have a few Degas on hand but I could get you a Monet or a Renoir by the end of the week, tops.”

“Look, kid,” Tony said, folding his paper and setting it on the table. “I like you. I’d let you stay here even if you weren’t banging the Captain. You keep things interesting. Now _stop asking_.”

He finished his coffee and stood, picking up his newspaper as he headed for the door. He paused and turned back, wagging his finger in a scolding manner.

“And no art heists!”

 

Your shoulder was completely healed. You had been right in thinking that it would always hurt to some degree; as the days grew colder and a damp chill spread in the air, you had more aches and pains than you were used to, but you worked yourself through it. Some years down the line, it might require some sort of intervention, pain medication or rest, but for the time being, it was something you could live with.

With your recovery finished, Natasha decided it was time to put you to work, so to speak. She pointed out that your skills had always been more towards the hide-and-seek variety; there was always chance you would need to defend yourself, and it would do well if you had some training in that respect. Of course you agreed; you’d been trying to get her to teach you that thigh-chokehold thing for years. She insisted that you instead focus on the basics, like avoiding grasps and getting out of holds. Spoilsport.

It was fun, to start, but the more you thought about it, the more serious you became about learning to defend yourself. You realized that it wasn’t just your own extracurricular activities that put you in danger; you were friends with a band of heroes -- a bit more than a friend to one in particular -- and that made you a target. So you trained hard, tried to learn as much as you could, and started blending the skills you already had into the fray.

You were light on your feet, which helped you to slip out of grip more easily. You knew how to rebound if you hit the ground and roll into a fall to reduce injury and still land on your feet. Stealth. Tumbling. You had well-developed muscle that could carry your weight but it wasn’t terribly obvious; you would be underestimated, perhaps under-matched. You had a decent chance of escaping with your life, should something untoward happen.

 

When they were gone, when they were working, the Tower became lonely. It was far too quiet, even with the floors below bustling with the activity of a multibillion dollar corporation. The empty common rooms seemed colder, even hollow without them there.

You stayed in Steve’s apartment most nights when he was there, and most days when he was not. The atmosphere calmed you: the scent of him still on the air, his belongings strewn about as though he would walk back in at any moment. You wore his t-shirts while he was gone and played records on his player; you had spotted that familiar orange-tinted record sleeve on the first night you had stayed with him, and while he was gone, you’d often leave _I Got Dem Ol' Kozmic Blues Again Mama_ running on repeat.

Occasionally, you might shed a worried tear during the second track. Maybe.

 

When they were gone more than a day or two, you would find some work. Small, little jobs. Things to keep you occupied, to keep you from thinking too hard about the danger they were all in. A little burglary here, a little grand larceny there.

While Steve was in Bratislava, tracking down a lead on the world-threatening plot of the week, you were in Brooklyn Heights, borrowing a Mercedes SLK55 AMG for a brief weekend joyride and then watching it sink into Shepherd Lake. The owner was not too happy about that, but his soon-to-be ex-wife was pleased as punch.

It was the little things that helped, honestly.

 

You’d made the pilgrimage you had been putting off: you went to see Benny’s widow. His little girls seemed fine, but they were so young, running and playing as though nothing at all had happened. They didn’t understand, Nina Severini explained; they had no context for death, they couldn’t grasp the permanence of it. They only knew that Daddy had gone away.

There wasn’t much that Nina could tell you, only that some men had come to see Benny at the shop and he had acted nervous for a few days, and then it happened. He kissed her goodbye that morning, held her longer than usual, told her he loved her.

Nina had been worried that he was ill. She never could have expected what was to happen. You had visited your own bank that day and drawn cash, insisting that you owed it to Benny, a considerable loan with interest. She hadn’t believed you, you could tell, but she took the money. She was leaving New York, she told you, taking the girls and going to her parents in Cheyenne. 

You knew you’d never see her again, but it was for the best.


	22. Chapter 22

That night the team returned to the Tower; the only notice you had of their arrival was a brief text that came while you were unpacking a bag you had picked up at your storage unit. You had stopped there after leaving Nina’s place and grabbed a few necessary items now that you were staying at the Tower long term. Your phone buzzed in your back pocket and you couldn’t help the grin that lit upon your face when you saw the sparse three-word message: _Honey, I’m home_.

You stuffed your bag of contraband beneath your bed -- you could sort it out later -- and headed towards the common lounge, where the group tended to congregate when they returned, barring any injuries. If Steve had been hurt, he or someone else would have alerted you so that you could head to the med bay to look in on him.

Damned if you weren’t getting fond of him.

 

They were all tired; you could see it in the way they slouched on the furniture, leaning into one another. Natasha and Clint had commandeered an armchair together, tucked in close, with Nat sending an occasional glare around the room, as though she were daring anyone to speak on it. Of course the others knew better. 

You had passed Tony on your way in, looking a little worse for wear and heading for the elevator. Sam was stretched out on one couch, hands behind his head, and breathing deep and even enough that you knew if he weren’t already asleep, he would be there shortly. Bruce sat on the floor with his back against the same couch, holding a mug of what was most likely herbal tea. While the others were still in vestiges of their uniforms, he was in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, telling you that the Other Guy had made an appearance somewhat recently. He looked pale but seemed calm, and gave you a weak smile as you entered.

Steve was slumped on the other couch and turned his head as you entered, offering you a full smile in spite of the bags under his eyes.

“There’s my girl,” he said quietly, holding out a hand. If you blushed a little, no one called any attention to it, and for that you were grateful; the sudden bloom of butterflies in your stomach at the familiar expression was at least nothing that could be noted from an outside vantage. Steve wasn’t too terribly keen on overt public displays of affection but whatever had happened had clearly had some effect on all of them, and he seemed to need the closeness now. 

You climbed onto the couch and curled up against him, laying your head against his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and pulled you in even closer. Steve dropped a kiss on the top of your head and just rested there, breathing in the scent of your hair and heaving a sigh that you felt reverberate through his body.

“Rough trip?” you asked quietly.

Steve sighed. “Casualities,” he explained. “Civilians.”

“Ouch,” you muttered in response, and heaved a sigh of your own. “Not friendly fire?”

“No,” Steve relented, rubbing a slow circle on your back. “But still.

There was a gash in his arm that you could see through a tear in his uniform, but it was already healed over. You still reached out and peeled back the tattered fabric, inspecting the damage. 

“Did you get this looked at?” you asked.

“It’ll be fine in a day or two,” Steve told you, and you felt the press of his lips on the crown of your head again. “Buck got it a little worse, they’re stitching him up in the med bay. Nothing to worry about, though.”

The room was quiet but you knew just from the feel of Steve’s body beneath you that it was holding an air of tension too strong for any of them to really relax, save Sam, who had drifted off most likely out of sheer exhaustion. You reached over and patted Steve on the thigh, and nodded towards the door.

“C’mon, Sugar,” you said quietly. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

He smiled, small and pleased, at use of the nickname you had recently begun using; you’d given him no end of grief for the amount of sugar he liked to pour into his morning coffee and, tasting that sweetness on his lips so often, it had just stuck. No one else paid it any mind, though you did take care to reserve it more for when you were alone. 

When he stood, he took your hand in his, and the two of you walked towards the elevators. From behind you as you left, you heard a low exhale of breath.

“Damn,” said Sam, not so asleep after all. “I gotta get me one of those.”

 

The absence of his teammates gave Steve some distraction, allowing him to relax, and by the time the elevator reached his floor, he was downright playful, tickling your sides and pinching at your thighs as you tried to walk down the hallway. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Steve, knock it off!” you told him, giggling too hard to to be taken at all serious.

“Can’t help it, doll,” he told you, sliding his fingertips beneath the hem of the sleep shorts you were wearing. “My hands have a mind of their own tonight.” 

You laughed again, pushing his hands away only long enough to open the door to his apartment before you turned and pulled him in after you by the buckle of his belt. Once inside, he wrapped his arms around you tightly and just held you, heaving another sigh.

“Glad to be home,” he mumbled into your hair.

“Glad to have you back,” you responded, and leaned up on your tiptoes to brush your lips across his. He hummed contentedly at the action and you moved your focus to his uniform, pulling at buttons and zippers before going to his belt and working at unbuckling it.

“Whose hands are causin’ all the trouble now?” Steve teased, the grin on his face so wicked that it was all you could do not to push him down on the living room floor and have your way.

“Don’t get any ideas, soldier,” you warned, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve got a hot date with the shower before anything else.”

Steve sighed, and started pulling at his uniform. “Sure you don’t want to join me, beautiful?” he asked, the smirking half-smile on his face near enough to melt you into a puddle on the floor.

You closed your eyes and shook your head, mirroring back his grin. “Not tonight, Sugar. Just hurry up and get cleaned up. I’ll be waiting.”

Steve sighed, a bit over-dramatically. “If you insist,” he responded, and made his way to the bathroom, where you had set out towels and pajamas.


	23. Chapter 23

You were waiting on the couch when Steve padded out of the bathroom in bare feet, hair still damp from the shower and clad only in the grey drawstring pajama pants you had left him. The wound on his arm looked better already, and you could feel the waves of heat still rolling off of his skin from the hot water of his shower. 

He placed a hand on the back of the couch and hopped over, landing on the couch beside you with enough force to make you bounce in your seat, and you both laughed at the movement. Steve leaned back in his seat and patted his lap, and you were quick to accept the invitation, sliding in with the ease and comfort of someone who’d made the same motion time and again. You straddled his waist with your knees, resting comfortably against his thighs, and watched the way his eyes drank in your figure, darkening just slightly as they flicked down to your thin shorts and back up to the soft camisole top you were.

“Missed this,” he told you, large hands settling around your waist. “Missed you.”

“So much so that you couldn’t even stop to dry your hair, Rogers?” you asked, reaching to tug on one damp tendril that hung over his forehead. He quickly shook his head, sending air-cooled droplets of water flying, landing across your skin and dampening your clothes. “Like a shaggy dog,” you told him with a laugh, pushing his now messy hair out of his face. 

He reached up and grabbed your hand with one of his own, drawing it instead to his lips, where he kissed and nipped at your fingertips.

“Okay, okay, I missed you too,” you relented, still laughing softly. Steve smiled, twining his fingers with yours, just watching you for a long moment.

“You keep busy while I was gone?” he asked, the hand at your waist slipping beneath your top to rub against your lower back.

“Oh yeah,” you responded with a roll of your eyes. “Let’s see, I alphabetized your records… rearranged the kitchen cabinets… got some actual food for your fridge, you’re welcome…”

He spiked a dirty blonde eyebrow at you. “You stay in here while I’m gone?”

“I do,” you relented, eyes following a stray bead of water as it slid down from his hair, behind his ear and down his neck, seriously considering chasing its path with your lips.

“Sleep in my bed?” he pressed, and the hand beneath your top slipped a little further up your back. You loved this side of Steve, the one no one else got to see. The friendly, polite part of him may have caught your eye but this part, all dark eyes and soft touches, had captured you completely.

“Wrapped up in your sheets,” you agreed, dropping your voice to a low, flirty tone. “All by my lonesome.”

Steve let out a low exhale. “All by yourself, huh?” he asked. “What do you do in that big bed all alone, darlin’?”

You let loose a giggle, high and sweet, and leaned in closer until your lips were almost touching his. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” you replied, feeling his breath mingling with yours as you spoke.

“I would,” he agreed. He let your hand go and reached up with both hands to play with the straps of your top, sliding them down your shoulders and back again, a little lower each time. “Do you get lonesome for me, doll?”

“Maybe,” you whispered back, gently rocking your hips forward and smiling when he shuddered. 

“That’s not playing fair,” he chided, moving his hands back to your waist, slipping under your top and just ghosting beneath your breasts, making you draw in a deep breath. He could be so playful, so teasing; you wouldn’t have expected it of him, the way he could wind you up with just a whisper and a touch, but Steve seemed to know every little thing to do to drive you wild.

“Now who’s not playing fair?” you said, choking back a short gasp when he brushed his thumbs up over the pebbling peaks of your breasts.

He gave you a sly smile. “Tell me,” he persisted, rolling this thumbs across your skin and making you gasp. “Tell me what my girl does when I’m away. Do you touch yourself? Slide your fingers into those pretty panties, thinkin’ about me?”

“The mouth on you!” you damn near groaned, unable to stop yourself from leaning in to kiss him hard and rough, biting and sucking at his lower lip until he growled, hands slipping from your breasts to pull you forward and crush you against his chest.

“You love it,” he panted as you moved your ministrations to his jaw and throat, sucking hard at his skin, drawing blooms of color in your wake. “You love that it’s just me an’ you, that you’re the only one who gets to hear me this way… love that I can’t control myself around you.”

He cursed when you reached the join of his shoulder and throat, biting down hard enough to leave an angry red mark. You barely had time to throw your arms around his neck as Steve stood, lifting you with ease. All playfulness had slipped away and you were dizzy with anticipation, Steve carrying you off to his bedroom where you would proceed to show him just how much you had missed him while he was away.

 

There were lazy days to follow; of course there were debriefings, lots of meetings and brainstorming sessions that you couldn’t be involved in, but that was well enough. It gave you time to dig your heels in a little to your own problem. Let Steve save the world -- you could at least do right by an old friend.

So while you heard muffled arguing coming from a conference room that was strictly off-limits to non-superhero personnel, you were spending time in the common lounge, working on the tablet Tony had given you to find more information on the First Provincial Bank of New York. It had taken a few weeks but the bank had opened for business again -- god bless that FDIC insurance. The structural damage was surprisingly not at all bad, with the blast confined to a vault.

Benny had forced them to close the door before he dropped his trigger. He knew what he was doing, it would seem.

You sighed heavily, pushing your fingers through your hair as you read over the seventh or eighth article on the incident at the bank, swiping your free hand across the screen to move on to the next. It seemed to be the same information regurgitated over and over again in the many different publications in New York City. 

Suddenly a thought struck you. Whoever had sent Benny into the bank that morning could easily have tried it before. He might not have moved much beyond Rolexes and diamond pinky rings, but Benny was a well known face on the circuit. People liked him, continued to stop by his shop, even when they’d moved on to far more lucrative scams and heists. You hadn’t taken anything so low value as a Rolex -- discounting what you’d lifted off Tony and tossed back for pure kicks -- since you were just a kid starting out, but Benny was a sweetheart and you still stopped by now and again, to see how Nina and the kids were doing.

Pulling Benny into the deal was a calculated move, one that wouldn’t have been made without a lot of prep work, and some other failed endeavors. 

 

On a hunch, you did another quick search, looking for robbery attempts at First Provincial without including Benny’s name in the thread. The results made you gape; there had been robbery attempts exactly seven times at that particular bank within the last two years. You didn’t have to be up on the latest FBI statistics to know that was exorbitant. Just to be sure, it only took another quick search to confirm what you already knew. 

It was statistically impossible for the same bank to have that many robbery attempts at random. Barring some strange fluke of the universe, it just couldn’t happen -- unless they were looking for something specific. 

You sighed, swiping the browser app closed and leaning back into your seat on the couch. There was a lot more going on here than you had bargained for, and you feared you might be out of your depth. You didn’t want to bring it to Steve; much as he might want to help you, you knew that it was too early to break the tentative peace between the two of you regarding what you did for a living. Besides, he’d probably try and make it a team issue and cut you out of it entirely if it were as bad as you were beginning to fear.

You’d apparently wedged yourself right in between a rock and a hard place, and you had no idea how to proceed.


	24. Chapter 24

Footsteps in the hallway alerted you that the meeting was over, and the grumbling of several masculine voices made it clear that it hadn’t gone as well as any of them had hoped. Steve and Bucky appeared in the lounge just moments after you heard their approach, each wearing a somewhat troubled expression.

Steve’s cleared when he spotted you sitting there on the couch.

“Shouting match through for the day?” you inquired.

Bucky snorted, practically falling into an armchair. “Give it an hour and Stark ‘n Steve will be back at it again,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Steve frowned at his old friend, sliding easily into the seat beside you. “Just a little disagreement, that’s all. It’s going to happen in this line of work.”

“If you say so,” you told him, shifting to stretch out on your back, crossing your legs over his lap. “I wouldn’t know myself, what with my being a career criminal and all.”

Steve huffed a laugh and shook his head, rubbing at your thigh in his lap. For important matters, like your concerns about Benny and the bank, you had to keep silent; didn’t mean you couldn’t still tease him a bit, though.

“Worry free is it, that kind of life?” he asked.

“One of the many perks of the trade,” you told him, folding your hands across your abdomen.

“Plus all those free bullets you get to keep once they dig them outta you, right?” Steve responded, tickling at the underside of your knee where he knew it would make you jump, even through the material of your jeans. He’d discovered all of your ticklish spots, the places to touch to make you startle or shiver, and made liberal use of them.

“That’s not playing fair,” you warned him, and stuck out your tongue.

A noise of disgust from across the room made you turn your head, just in time to see Bucky heave himself out of the armchair and head for the door.

“Seriously, can’t a guy relax around here without you two pawin’ at each other?” he called over his shoulder, clearly headed for greener pastures. “Swear to god, you’re worse than Barton makin’ his doe eyes at Natasha all the time.”

You turned back to Steve in surprise. “Are we that bad?” you asked.

He snorted. “Don’t mind Buck. He’s a little hard-up these days, makes him all kinds of surly. Didn’t help, him walkin’ in on us in the gym the other day.”

“That one was on you, Rogers,” you declared, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re the one who barged in on my workout.”

“You’re the one who started stripping,” Steve countered, a wicked little gleam in his eye at the memory. You had to admit, it wasn’t an afternoon you’d be forgetting any time soon.

“In my defense, the song sort of demands it,” you replied, remembering the catchy slow jam that had popped up on your iPod speaker just as you noticed Steve watching your routine on the parallel bars.

“Who even puts something like that on a workout playlist, anyway?” Steve said, back to rubbing at your thigh now, though consciously or not, his hand had crept up a little higher than before.

“All kinds of workouts, Cap,” you said, and winked.

 

Maybe Bucky had been right -- the two of you were carrying on a bit more than was strictly necessary, acting a little childish now and again. Even Natasha had been wont to roll her eyes when she walked in on you and Steve making out like horny teenagers against the counter in the shared kitchen.

It had been a long while since you’d been with anyone for more than something brief, running hot and burning out quickly; it was fun to take your time, indulge in all of the little things that made it all fun. And if Steve was honest -- and there was nothing in the world that would convince you that he wasn’t -- there hadn’t been anyone significant in his life since he’d defrosted. Couple that with teenage years spent sickly or ignored, and Steve had a lot of lost time to make up for. You had every intention of making his efforts worth the trouble.

Not that you could understand his being passed over; you’d seen the photos, he was adorable. He’d blushed scarlet when you told him that, and detailed everything you would have done to his younger, less self-assured self.

That had been a fun night.

“C’mon, let’s go downstairs,” Steve said suddenly, patting at your thigh before giving your legs a gentle shove off of his lap. “I’ll make you dinner.”

You watched him stand and sat up but stayed put on the couch, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to cook?” you asked curiously. “What’s the occasion?” You had learned quickly that Steve was fairly capable in the kitchen; he just didn’t like to bother, more apt to join the others for takeout or pick over the array of instant microwavable fare that stocked the communal kitchen.

Steve held out his hands to you and you took them, allowing yourself to be pulled to your feet. He misjudged his strength - or pretended to - and you found yourself crashing against his broad chest and losing your footing, forced to grip at him for stability even as his arms settled around you.

“I got you,” he said quietly, and the small pleased smile that you had grown very fond of as of late appeared on his face.

You nodded, making no move to right yourself or slip out of his grasp. “Yeah, you do,” you agreed softly. Your words made him fully grin, heat rising in your cheeks in noting that Steve realized what you had meant. You started to look away but he raised a hand to brush your hair away from your face and run his thumb across your lower lip.

“Then lucky me,” he told you, and kissed you so softly that it almost felt like nothing more than a whisper against your lips. 

You might have extended your stay in the lounge if Tony hadn’t chosen to saunter in then, giving a long put-out sigh and undoubtedly rolling his eyes, though you weren’t facing him to confirm.

“Are you two at it again?” he crowed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Bet nobody thought Cap would come out so horny once they thawed him out.”

Steve scowled at Tony over your shoulder, their argument clearly not yet forgotten; even Tony’s voice held a note more goading and less playful than he might normally have been.

“We were just leaving,” he responded in an even tone, slipping his hand into yours and nearly pulling you along as he headed for the elevators.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWii1KOE0Fo), incidentally.


	25. Chapter 25

Steve made good on his promise of dinner, though you helped him in the kitchen wherever you could. You found that you like the normalcy of it, as though you were like any other couple, just spending time together, sharing a meal on a quiet evening. Not a thief and a superhero, spending what little time you could together before he was inevitably called away.

Steve told you that he’d have to leave again the following afternoon over a shared pint of vanilla ice cream, cuddled together on his couch. You had sighed, but told him you understood.

“All part and parcel of being with Captain America, right?” you told him with a small smile. “Lucky me that I get to know you like this.”

“Not here,” he corrected, shaking his head. “Here I’m just me. Spending the night with my best girl, nothing else going on but us.” You snuggled in closer, twining your fingers with his, both still chilled from the now empty pint of ice cream discarded on the coffee table. 

“Just us?” you asked quietly. “Works for me. Kinda think I like it actually. ‘ _Us_ ’.”

Steve hummed his own approval and tightened his arm around your shoulders, nuzzling into your hair. “‘ _Us_ ’,” he agreed.

 

You saw Steve off the next day, relieved to some degree that it wasn’t the entire team heading out. You knew when everyone was involved, it implied a greater degree of danger; if they could make do with just a few members of the team, it must be less risky an endeavor. Steve left with Sam, Natasha, and Clint; Bucky, Bruce, and Tony stayed behind.

Even with only a few less bodies around, the Tower took on the air of quiet it always seemed to carry whenever Steve was gone. Tony was taking time to attend to the actual business side of his corporation, and you didn’t see much of him; Bucky was there to pal around with a bit, but he had a tendency to fold inward when Steve wasn’t around, spending much of his time working out alone in the gym. You always felt like you were intruding if you happened upon him there.

While Steve was away, you took some time to dig a little deeper into the bank mess and sort out some of your own personal things. The bag you had haphazardly tossed beneath the bed in your suite of rooms had been long forgotten, as rarely as you were there anymore; you were living with Steve in everything short of name. Still, there was work to be done, and you set to it while you had the time.

You’d pulled a few of your smaller tools out of storage: small bolt cutters, wire cutters, a slide bolt hammer, a high capacity code grabber, a keyring full of filed down car keys, small brushes and thin handsaw blades, surgical scissors and forceps, hand drills with extra bits, telescoping magnet wands, and, of course, your lock picks. A hair pin and some elbow grease might work on a cheap minimal tumbler door lock, but for bigger jobs you needed professional grade tools, stainless steel picks with precision blades kept clean and neat in a leather hand-roll. You’d grabbed the low-tech safecracker kit as well, just in case; you had more technical versions that relied heavily on electronics but you didn’t think you’d be needing them any time soon.

Beneath the tools, you had packed some of your gear, mostly gloves of varying thickness, your tactical belt with hidden blades in the buckle, and a harnessed vest you would wear to carry whatever you needed for a job. You’d thrown in a pair of black boots that you usually wore when working and some dark clothing as well, using it as padding for a battered laptop, the cell phone you used for jobs, and a small rosewood box.

You hid your tools beneath the clothing in your dresser drawers and set the laptop on the bed, intending to use it soon enough. The box you took out as well, using a small flat golden key you kept in your wallet to open it and check its contents. Sitting fitted in red velvet lining was a small nickel-plated pistol with white pearl grips, and three extra clips, all of them fully loaded. You inspected the Colt .380, checking the clip already inside to ensure that it too was full, the gleaming row of bullets ready and waiting for use.

The gun was far older than it looked; it had belonged to a family member, a maiden-aunt whose heyday had been during the roaring 1920’s. When it passed down the family line it was given to you, on your eighteenth birthday. Your father had fond memories of his elderly aunt and saw shades of her personality in you as you grew, and felt it a fitting gift, so long as you learned how to use and store it safely. It had been remarkably well cared for and was a very suitable weapon -- the only one you would carry at times if a job seemed dangerous, fitting nicely into a custom made holster in the lining of your leather jacket. 

After ensuring everything was as it should be, you replaced the gun in its box and locked it tight, slipping it back under your bed for safekeeping. With your laptop under your arm, you left your room, asking JARVIS to keep it locked behind you, and headed out into the city to get some work done.

 

You couldn’t use the Tower’s wifi. Either Tony would find out what you were doing, or someone would see your posting and be able to trace it back to a connection owned by Stark Industries. No matter the outcome, you had to protect both yourself and Steve and his team from any harm that would come, and for that, you needed to borrow a connection from someone else.

You grabbed a taxi and took it in a meandering route, no real destination in mind, until you spotted a small tucked away coffee shop advertising free wifi in the window. You paid your fare and slipped inside, ordering a cappuccino before taking a seat near the window and firing up your laptop. It was an old machine and you were in need of an upgrade, but you kept it either out of some sentimental silliness or just convenience, you weren’t sure which. It was still able to do what you needed and would serve your purposes, for now.  
Your hands skittered back and forth across the keys, pausing only when a harried waitress brought your coffee and you offered her a smile and nod in greeting. There were peer blocks to initiate and proxy servers to route through before you could even open the Tor browser. It was a good ten minutes before you were able to reach the site you needed, and you posted a simple message, hoping it would be bait enough to draw out the people you were trying to reach.

“Established grift seeks client. No spivs - 250k+. NX.”

You hadn’t advertised for a job in years, hadn’t needed to, but when you did you always signed it NX, off the nickname coined for you early in your career, by Interpol if you were remembering correctly. You including the number of a burner phone that you kept on permanent charge in your storage unit; it would redirect through a landline and another burner before it came to your work phone.

Now all you had to do was wait.


	26. Chapter 26

You took a cab to another part of town and grabbed an Uber from there. Though cheaper, rideshare services were a little too easy to trace, with the anonymity of the a taxi better suited to your needs. Someone would have to be pretty dedicated to track your route, so as far as anyone would be able to tell, you had spent your day browsing in the Seaport District. You’d even stopped at It’Sugar and picked up a retro candy box for Steve, packed full of violet gum and candy cigarettes and all sorts of goodies you’d never even heard of; for good measure, you added a liberal amount of modern treats to share around.

That particular stop hadn’t been part of the plan, but when you saw it advertised in the window, you couldn’t help it. Sweets for your Sugar, after all.

 

When you returned to the Tower, you put away your laptop and headed to the communal kitchen to forage for a snack. It was already late afternoon and the sun was beginning its descent, the common areas of the Tower deserted and quiet. 

“Got a sweet tooth?” a voice interrupted as you rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. You were certain there was a stockpile of overly-sweetened cereal somewhere in that kitchen, and though you knew that he was speaking instead on the shopping bags you had left on the kitchen table, it still made you laugh, give your current endeavor.

You glanced over your shoulder and smiled. “Hey Bruce,” you said amiably. “Please, help yourself. Just not the…”

“Box marked ‘ _That 40’s Mix_ ’?” Bruce supplied, smiling down at the package. “This is cute. I didn’t know they made stuff like this.” Glancing up, he gestured in your direction with the candy box. “It’s a gift, I take it?”

“Something like that,” you agreed, finally spotting what you were searching for: an unopened box of Lucky Charms. The cereal might taste a little like cardboard, but the marshmallows were in a class of their own; you instantly regretted not buying the box of marshmallow-only cereal they had on display at It’Sweet. You shook the cereal box in Bruce’s direction and asked, “You want?”

 

The scientist had restored Steve’s gift to your shopping bag and paused in thought, then rubbed at his tired eyes. “Yeah, what the hell?” he agreed; he opened a drawer and grabbed spoons as you turned to the refrigerator for the milk, and retrieved bowls as you were setting the milk carton on the table.

You both settled into seats at the table and you filled your bowl with the sugary cereal before passing it off to Bruce. Your eyes met when he reached for the milk after you used it, and you put on your most serious expression.

“I would like to point out,” you told him, gesturing back and forth between the two of you with your spoon, “That we are both adults, sitting in a skyscraper with a five-star chef on permanent retainer and every best restaurant in the city on speed-dial, and we are choosing Lucky Charms for dinner.”

Bruce let out a full, throaty laugh, and reached forward to clink his spoon against yours. “To adulthood!” he told you, and you grinned.

 

You made small talk over your cereal. You didn’t see Bruce very often; it seemed that when his spirits were high, he spent much of his time in the labs, working away quietly and occasionally forgetting to do the little things like sleep, or eat, or change his socks. When they were low, he tucked himself away, keeping space between himself and anyone he feared he might harm if he lost control. Everyone in the Tower seemed fairly certain that Dr. Banner had a decent enough hold on himself to avoid any unforeseen transformations, except for Bruce himself.

Which was a shame, because when he did turn up, he was always pleasant company.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he told you, startling you out of your thoughts. “How did you and Natasha ever meet?”

“Oh, she kicked me in the face once,” you explained, smiling at the memory. “It was awesome.”

Bruce snorted, fishing around his bowl for a marshmallow. “Care to elaborate?” he asked.

“We kinda met on a job,” you told him, shrugging and leaning back in your seat. “I had a… client… looking to score this cigarette case. Antique, maybe late 19th century. Beautiful piece, made from green nephrite with silver scrollwork edging and some inset diamonds. Really gorgeous.”

Bruce nodded. “Sounds like you know your antiques,” he commented mildly.

You smiled. “Occupational hazard,” you told him in reply. “Anyway, it wasn’t all that on the pricey side, maybe twenty grand or so, but it was still early days for me in the business so I wasn’t above the job. Tied into some family feud for the client, dear old granny left it to one kid instead of the other, all of that kind of bull,” you went on, rolling your eyes at the memory. 

Moneyed people could be so ridiculous over that sort of thing, really.

“So the kid who didn’t get it, wanted you to get it for them?” Bruce asked curiously.

“Bingo,” you affirmed, nodding your head. “Honestly, the job paid more than what the piece was worth, but what the hell, right? So I make my way in to get the case but all I find is a knockoff full of USB drives. I figure that’s gotta be something, and I’m taking the service tunnels out of this place and what happens but I round a corner and get a boot to my face.”

“Enter the Widow?” Bruce said, and you snorted again.

“A grand entrance at that,” you agreed. “I start bleeding from my mouth but know I have to get the hell out, so I run at her like I’m gonna hit her or something and she immediately goes to dodge it, which gives me a chance to use her as a springboard. One jump and I hit popcorn ceiling tile, and I’m gone.”

Bruce nodded. “Nat couldn’t have been happy with that.”

You laughed, and dug back into your now mushy cereal before replying. “Spitting nails,” you agreed. “And waiting for me at the back entrance. Still can’t figure out how she got there before me. Anyway, turned out that she was there for the drives and had gotten the real cigarette case instead. Presto change-o, we swap, go our separate ways. A week later I get a call on what I thought was a secure cell, offering to buy me coffee as an apology for breaking my face.”

Bruce gave another laugh, one of those long, deep ones that you had grown to like. It made him seem happy, relaxed. You thought he could use a few more laughs like that.

“Of course Natasha would make friends that way,” he told you, smiling and shaking his head.

“Can’t really blame her,” you pointed out. “Not like she can look for new besties at a neighborhood barbeque or a PTA meeting.”

“You either, for that matter,” Bruce added, and you hummed in agreement.

“We got on well enough that we just figured, what the hell, right? In my line of work, it’s rough finding someone you can really trust anyway, so it’s no big for me to take the word of a reformed assassin,” you explained.

 

In truth, you were glad to have found Natasha. Though you hadn’t had much time to see each other all that often, particularly when you were both traveling most days for your respective career choices, it was still good knowing that there’d be a reassuring, friendly voice on the other end of the line should you need it. You enjoyed Natasha’s company, and you respected the hell out of her; what better basis for friendship? After all, her standing invitation to the Tower had eventually saved your life… and introduced you to Steve.

All in all, it seemed a very good thing to have found a friend in the notorious Black Widow.

“I suppose none of us really ever expected to come together this way,” Bruce mused, tapping his spoon on the edge of his bowl as he thought it over. “I certainly never thought this is where my life was heading.”

“You and me both,” you replied, unconsciously rolling the shoulder you had injured, as though still feeling a phantom pain. “Nat kept telling me I should stop by sometime. Kinda wishing I had done it before I was bleeding all over the place, now.”

“There’s another surprising note to this whole thing,” Bruce went on, nodding. “Natasha the Matchmaker.”

You raised a slender eyebrow at his words. “Matchmaker?” you echoed.

Bruce’s soft brown eyes widened. “Oh,” he said lamely, in sudden realization. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said…”

You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms over your chest, eyes narrowed. “I suppose you should tell me the rest now that you let the cat out of the bag.”

“Oh! Cat!” Bruce said suddenly, snapping his fingers. “I noticed you call Natasha ‘kotyonok’ sometimes -- that means ‘cat’, doesn’t it? How did that start?”

“It means ‘kitten’,” you replied evenly, expression unchanged. “Natasha started calling me ‘ptichka’ because I tend to move towards higher places if I need to escape. It means ‘little bird’. So I started calling her ‘kotyonok’ in return. Nice try in changing the subject, though, Bruce. Explain this matchmaker business.”

Bruce sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I just heard Nat say a few times that she knew someone Steve might take a shine to, that’s all. I guess I assumed…”

You snorted. Natasha would pull something like that, simply because it would seem like nothing she would ever attempt. That was your strange Russian friend in a nutshell, a complete antithesis of herself when she wanted to be, still something of a mystery after years knowing each other.

“Well,” you finally said, scooping up a last stray marshmallow from your bowl. “Not like it’s anything I can call her out on now. Conniving little kotyonok.”


	27. Chapter 27

You bid Bruce goodnight after promising repeatedly that you weren’t upset about his revelation and you surely wouldn’t bring it up with Natasha, or at least leave his name out of it if you did. You really couldn’t be angry if she had been trying to set you up with Steve; she seemed to have hit her target about as well as Clint could put an arrow through a bullseye.

You weren’t sure exactly what it was about Steve Rogers that drew you in. The physical side was obvious: he was fit and handsome, charming as all get out. There was a certain appeal to his gentlemanly demeanor made all the more worthwhile as you had gotten to know the far less polished side of him, the one full of sarcasm and snark… the one that would creep up behind you and whisper absolutely filthy things in your ear until your cheeks flamed and you took his hand to pull him off to someplace more private, so that he could make good on his suggestions.

But it wasn’t even just that. There was something else, something you couldn’t name. You saw it in the easy way you fell together, the way you could sit together in a pleasant, comfortable quiet, no pressure and no expectations. Just a smile from him could draw up a bubbling giddiness in your chest that would only grow, never really leaving you as long as you were together.

It was strange. It was wonderful

You didn’t know how long it would last but you were going to hold on tight for as long as you could, because this? This was _happy_. And you never even knew that you were missing it until it haphazardly fell into your lap.

 

A little past nine that evening, you heard the familiar chirp of the text alert on your working cell. You had been curled up on Steve’s couch, watching a _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ rerun and considering turning in early when the alert sounded, startling you slightly in the quiet of the empty apartment. You picked up your phone from where you had left it on the kitchen counter -- surprisingly careless move, considering -- and skimmed the message.

Someone had taken the bait; they promised a high value job with a payout of at least half a million, but wanted an initial meet to discuss the details and a small preliminary job to test your abilities.

And they wanted to meet with you in an hour. 

You sighed, glad you hadn’t decided to change into your pajamas already, and grabbed your jacket from where it sat draped across the back of a kitchen chair. You needed to make a quick stop at your own room, but you could probably make it to the meet in time. The location offered wasn’t too far off and it was a weekday, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to grab a taxi.

 

You had just left your own room, the Colt fitted into the holster pocket on the inside of your jacket, and were heading towards the elevator when you ran into Bucky. He was dressed in his workout clothes, most likely leaving a late training session in the gym.

He frowned when he saw you, throwing the towel he had been carrying over his shoulder.

“Where you headed?” he asked, studying you closely long enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Just have to run a quick errand,” you replied mildly.

The soldier’s frown grew. “You always arm yourself for errands?”

You startled, and then sighed. Of course Bucky would notice it; he was a trained soldier and with his serum enhancement, he could probably spot the outline of the weapon even as it was half-tucked beneath your arm in the custom holster in the lining of your jacket.

You shrugged, then smiled. “We’re not all super-soldiers, Buck. Late night in the big city, doesn’t hurt to have a little protection, does it?”

He watched you with narrowed eyes for a long beat before speaking. “Don’t get involved in something that’s going to hurt him, Nox,” he told you, voice low and nonthreatening but clearly resolved. “The kid doesn’t deserve that.”

“I would never hurt Steve,” you told him truthfully. “Never.”

That seemed to satisfy him, and he nodded. “Be careful,” he said, and continued on his way. He was shaking his head as he walked away, and you had to wonder if it were out of real concern for your safety, or for Steve.

 

It didn’t take long to get to the appointed meeting location. The little dive bar was bustling even for a weeknight and you proceeded as you had been directed to a booth in the northeast corner, and ordered a drink, just asking for whatever was on tap. You had no intention of actually drinking it -- not when you were at a prospective client meet on their own terms and chosen grounds -- but it would have looked strange for you to sit there empty handed. 

Twenty minutes after your drink arrived, a slim man with a hooked nose and dark pencil mustache slid into the rounded booth directly across from you, staring at you for a long moment before speaking.

“How do we know that you are who you say you are?” he asked, voice thin and reedy with the touch of an accent you couldn’t identify. Something Slavic, you thought.

“Does my reputation precede me?” you asked coolly. You leaned back against the cracked vinyl of the booth and crossed your arms over your chest. It was warm in the bar, the crush of bodies on the dancefloor sending waves of humidity wafting out towards the tables, but you had no intention of stripping out of your jacket. It was something of a security blanket for you, a totem; plus, it held your weapon. 

“ _Nox_ is well known,” the man replied, and leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. He picked at the napkin beneath your drink, rolling and shredding the thin paper between his fingertips. “But well enough so that she no longer needs to advertise. Why the change?”

You shrugged. “Boredom?” you countered, and sighed. “Speaking of which? I’m not going to waste my time going back and forth with you as to whether or not I am who I say I am. Either you want me for the job or you can look somewhere else.” You moved to slide out of the booth and he put a hand out to stop you.

“We require a… courtesy from you,” the man said. He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out manila envelope. “All the details are here. Perform this task and we will consider your credentials proven well enough to proceed.”

You took the envelope from his hand and didn’t open it, instead tapping it against the tabletop. “So it’s a two-part job,” you stated with a smile. “That requires a two-part fee.”

“I’m sure a bonus could be arranged,” the man responded thinly.

“Double or no deal,” you replied.

He looked angry but seemed to tamp it down. “I’ll… bring your… request… to my superiors,” he told you through gritted teeth.

“It’s not a request, it’s a demand,” you said, shaking your head as you moved to stand. Something about his demeanor told you that you were on the right track with this job, but you couldn’t seem too eager. “Confirm that your ‘superiors’ will meet what I’m asking, and get back to me. Then I’ll do your little errand here.”

You turned to leave and he grabbed your arm. “This is not a trifling matter,” he warned.

“And I’m not a back alley pickpocket,” you spat back. “You have twenty-four hours to get back to me, or consider it a bust.”

You did your taxi trick again on the way back, looking over your shoulder the whole way. You weren’t one to get anxious very easily but there was something about this whole setup that had you a bundle of nerves. Something big was going down and you had to figure it all out before it came to a head.

The text came not two hours later; your terms were agreed upon, and they expected results on the first job within a week’s time. It seemed simple enough on the face of things: an aging debutante in permanent residence at a high class New York hotel, a small lockbox in need of retrieval, and photos taken of her personal papers and identification. Easy enough, on the face of things. 

You made a few calls and set up to do the job on the coming weekend, leaving you with some time to kill.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May be a little slow on this one this week, I'm participating in GiSHWHeS and it monopolizes a lot of my time!

Nerves made you bake and clean. It had been that way since your youth, when midterms in high school saw you churning out dozens of peanut butter cookies and scrubbing the kitchen grout when you finished. The weight of what stood before you was heavy on your mind, and combined with radio silence from Steve and the others for days, you were at your wit’s end.

It’s not as though your rooms or Steve’s were the least bit untidy, but you couldn’t stop yourself from sprucing everything up here and there. You scrubbed and swept and organized and rearranged wherever you could; when you asked Tony for a vacuum to run over the carpets, he looked at you like you’d sprouted a second head and reminded you that housekeeping did come in weekly.

With little else to clean, you turned to the kitchen. First came the peanut butter cookies; when you ran out of brown sugar and peanut butter, you ran to the grocery store and came back with replenishments, alongside bag upon bag of chocolate chips and other flavored morsels. 

Chocolate chip cookies.

Mint chip cookies.

Snickerdoodles.

Butterscotch haystacks.

When Tony posted a ‘NO MORE COOKIES’ sign on his lab door, you switched to muffins and cupcakes, using Bucky as your recipe test subject until he too was hiding from your baked good deliveries, shaking his head and saying he already spent too much time in the gym, he didn’t need you sending him into overtime with chocolate frosted cupcakes.

He still took two of them before he left.

Bruce had no qualms about the baked goods deliveries; he welcomed you every time you knocked at his lab door and was quick to share the goodies with whoever might be working that day. When the cookies started piling up, he suggested you have Tony send them down to the corporate floors of the building, and soon enough you were flooding break rooms with warm muffins and cookies on the daily.

The baking worked two-fold to combat your anxiety, as it created a good amount of mess in the kitchen that you would, of course, have to clean up. You plugged your iPod into its speaker and queued up one of the many playlists you had made for Steve. He hadn’t heard this one yet, your take on the best of the 60’s girl groups, but the music was feel-good and upbeat, and you danced a little and sang along as you washed the dishes you had made and wiped down the counters. 

You scrubbed the mixing bowl to _Please Mr Postman_.

You soaked the muffin pans to _Chapel of Love_.

You smiled a little and wiped down the counter and oven-top to _Soldier Boy_.

You full-on smirked and sang along when you were sweeping the kitchen floor and _Leader of the Pack_ came on, remembering that day in the garage. It had been a turning point, all cards on the table, Steve knowing full well who you were and what you did, and still offering you the helmet to ride off into the sunset with him.

You had just gotten to “I can’t hide the tears, but I don’t care” when a voice interrupted your song and you jumped, startled.

“So this is _Leader of the Pack_?” Steve asked, smiling. He was leaning his shoulder against the door frame, hands shoved in his pockets; you were unsure how long he had been watching and you laughed at yourself, leaning your broomstick-dance partner against the wall. “Little depressing, isn’t it?”

You laughed. “Oh, Sugar, this one is pretty tame. It was a whole trend for a while, doomed teenage love songs. You don’t even wanna hear _Last Kiss_.”

You stretched up onto your tip-toes to put your arms around him, pulling him down just enough to meet your lips. He smiled into the kiss, strong hands coming to rest upon your waist. You didn’t pull away when the kiss ended and he grinned down at you.

“Hi,” he said quietly, blue eyes lit with something like happiness.

“Hi yourself,” you replied, and let yourself sigh heavily and melt against. “I’m glad you’re ho… I’m glad you’re back.” You caught yourself there; you had to be careful. You had kept trying to remind yourself that there were no promises of permanence here, but sometimes it was a little too easy to forget and let yourself live a daydream.

Steve tightened his arms around you. “I’m glad to be home,” he affirmed, whispering the words close to your ear.

The music changed and you pulled away suddenly, grabbing his hands and pulling him out onto the open kitchen floor.

“What…?” he started, and you grinned.

“C’mon, this is a good one!” you said, pulling him closer and swaying to the lively music, in something a little like dancing but more like fooling around. Steve laughed and followed your lead, spinning you around here and there as the song started, and you couldn’t help but sing along.

“Well he walked up to me and he asked me if I wanted to dance…”

 

You danced through the rest of your playlist. It was silly and uncoordinated and you stepped on Steve’s feet and bumped into the fridge, but it was fun and exhilarating. You were certain that had more to do with your partner than anything else. When the music ended, he lifted you off of your feet and carried you to the sofa, collapsing and pulling you down on top of him.

Not that you had any complaints about that. Stretching out across his muscular frame was far more comfortable than any couch cushion or mattress, and resting your head on his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart found you more relaxed than you had been in days, even as you needed to catch your breath from the dance.

Steve reached one strong hand to stroke through your hair and gave a contented sigh.

“Nothing like coming back to you, doll,” he said softly, and you made a small, pleased noise. His hand drifted from your hair to your shoulders and then your back, rubbing small soothing circles as it went. He sighed again and the motion of his breath had you rising and falling with his chest, drawing out a breathless giggle from you.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you told him, and burrowed your face against his chest. You drew in the scent of him, something fresh and spicy and undoubtedly male, familiar and damn near addicting. 

Steve continued rubbing at your back, clearly feeling the tension there that had been building up for days. He said your name and when you didn’t respond, he repeated it, the pressure of his hand growing enough to make you groan.

“Mmm?” you murmured by way of answer.

“Something wrong, baby?” he asked quietly.

You sighed. “Yes,” you admitted.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You paused a beat before responding. “No,” you told him, and frowned. You wanted to talk to him about it, you did; you wanted his expertise and his support, and more than anything you wanted the relief of spilling your troubles to someone who would hold you and tell you it would all be okay.

But you couldn’t. Not now. Not yet.

“Okay,” he agreed, and twined his free hand with yours. 

And that was it. He trusted you to keep your secrets if you needed to, to keep quiet about whatever was troubling you and keep him an arms-length away if necessary. Not for the first time, you wondered if you really deserved that trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Please Mr Postman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=425GpjTSlS4)
> 
> [Chapel of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTq7w8P6_2I)
> 
>  
> 
> [Soldier Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1NYw83uAQig)
> 
>  
> 
> [Leader of the Pack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5vFOpVGjVc)
> 
> [Last Kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bh4se9YMV3A)
> 
> Last song referenced via lyrics is [The Crystals, And Then He Kissed Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cE_jOD2Fxvs)


	29. Chapter 29

Two days later at a little past midnight, you slipped out of bed and out of Steve’s arms. You regretted it as soon as the coolness of the night touched your skin; you wanted more than anything to crawl back beneath the covers and wrap yourself up in his arms, but you had work to do. He was sleeping and you slipped out as quietly as you could, heading to your own rooms to ready yourself.

You’d made a few calls leading up to that night’s task and done a little research on your mark. A friend of a friend of a friend worked security at the Synclaire Hotel of New York and you called in a few favors to get what you needed. Security cameras were a pain in the ass and there was no way you could waltz in through the lobby. You had a penthouse to reach and a long way to get there; the favor would get you exactly twenty-seven seconds of interrupted surveillance video. From there on out, you were on your own.

You borrowed wheels from Tony to get to the Synclaire, though he had no idea that you were doing so. He’d learn of it soon enough, you were sure -- Stark Tower had more surveillance than the NSA and you were certain he had you on camera grabbing the keys from a locker easily opened in the garage and taking off into the night. The Zero S bike was your best bet, a quiet electric motor and small enough to not give you any trouble maneuvering through the city streets. With a helmet drawn down over your face, no traffic cam would be able to catch you, and you had pried off the plates before leaving the garage. You parked a few blocks away from the hotel and continued on foot, heading for the back loading docks.

The hotel was high end enough to have video surveillance on the docks, so sent a text message simply reading “here” and waited in the shadows behind a foul-smelling dumpster for the response, eyes on the white and silver camera sweeping up and back along loading dock. Seconds later you received a return messaged reading “NOW”, and when your eyes flicked to the camera, you saw the red light on its base go out and the rotating head stop in place, pointing far and away from you.

You ran, as fast as you could, up the short concrete stairs to the loading dock and through the doors blocked with only a plastic curtain. A woman pushing a pallet jack with a load of large bottles of spring water shouted something as you ran but you ignored her, intent on reaching the service elevator before your time ran out. You rounded a corner behind the kitchen of the Synclaire’s five-star restaurant and spotted the elevator, the doors hanging out in waiting. 

You were panting when you made it inside but you had no time to rest. The doors closed but the elevator didn’t move, no calls for catered meals or turndown service that night; you jumped up to balance on the side-rail in the elevator car and pushed at the access vent in the ceiling, popping it open and dragging yourself up, swinging your legs for leverage as you scrambled for a handhold atop the elevator car. You pulled your booted feet up behind you just as the cameras snapped back on, and gave yourself a moment to breathe before continuing.

 

You had a long climb ahead of you. Marla Digby had set up house in 27th floor penthouse suite at the Synclaire some six years ago and had yet to leave, and your only way up was the ladder rungs in the service elevator shaft. 

From what you had gleaned in your research, she was some sixteen years your senior but had enough plastic surgery, Botox, and collagen injections to keep her face at least looking youthful. She was a socialite, twice-divorced former debutante, and you needed something of hers to prove your worth to your mysterious clients. You were sweating, your shoulder aching before you’d even reached the tenth floor, but there would be no stopping you tonight.

At the 24th floor, you heard the elevator so far below you kick to life. You had been slowing, the pain in your shoulder growing along with your fatigue, but the noise breathed new life into you and you scrambled to get higher, to get to your mark, to get to safety, before the elevator reached you. You had to lean across the shaft to reach the elevator doors, your legs clutched tight around the ladder rungs to hold you up; you were just barely able to open the door with gloved hands gone numb from climbing and free-jump across, pulling yourself across and onto the carpeted floor as the elevator car whipped past you, a very confused bellman looking out into what seemed to be an empty corridor.

By the time reached the penthouse door, you could hear the elevator beginning its descent; you peered carefully around the corridor and saw the bellman step out, look around, then shrug and go back in to head back to wherever he had come from. You sighed and turned your attention back to the job at hand.

The door lock was simple enough. The Synclaire used the same RFID card system that 90% of the hotels in every major city were using. The DC power port beneath the locking mechanism synced with the program on your smartphone in seconds, and you little more to do than wait the the short moment for it to force an unlock event on the mechanism, and you were in.

The living area of the suite was as posh as you expected, and Ms. Digby about as careless; her purse was thrown on a glass coffee table and you had taken photos of her license and other cards from her wallet in less than a minute. You wanted to be in and out in less than twenty and you were moving quickly enough. The lockbox wasn’t in the living area; you suspected she would keep it in the bedroom safe, which could be an issue, but when you stepped lightly into the room that reeked of booze and heard the woman’s heavy drunken snores, you smiled.

This would be easier than you had hoped. The safe was in a small alcove in the wall beside the doorway to the bathroom and it had an electronic key, making your job even simpler. You cast a slightly sympathetic look back at the woman sleeping off her bender in the luxurious penthouse bed; she probably thought she had the utmost protection her money could buy.

The safe was heavy but you could see just from looking at it that it was no more secure than the average consumer gun safe -- so not very secure at all. Your already overworked arms strained a little to lift it out and settle it onto the plushly carpeted floor. It might have been less of a struggle to use a small controlled ignition to blow the door, but you need the quiet and didn’t want Sleeping Beauty to know she had been robbed. 

You settled the safe on its side with the door hinge closest to the floor, then tipped it back just gently before letting it drop. It landed back on its side with a muted thump, and the woman in the bed didn’t so much as stir. You repeated the action once more, then twice, and on the third time the solenoid pin inside found just enough give to turn the bolts and pop the door open. The little silver lockbox was nestled inside among paperwork and gaudy jewelry; you grabbed your prize and quickly closed the little safe, heaving it back into its place and slipping quickly from the room.

The Synclaire hadn’t bothered to place cameras in the stairwells, and it was a long way down but you could take your time. You were near exhausted when you reached the ground floor but crouched before the door that would lead back into the service areas, surveying the lock and deciding to leave your more expensive picks packed into your jacket pocket, using instead your trusty hair pin to throw the four-tumbler lock and pop the door open. 

No one bothered you as you slipped back out into the night; you were ready to collapse by then, too long in your recovery, too long out of the game to do this easily and without such exhaustion. Still you ran, finding Tony’s motorcycle where you left it and maybe moving a little too fast through the city streets, desperate to get home.


	30. Chapter 30

You sighed when you finally made it back to Steve’s apartment. Glancing at the clock, you couldn’t believe that only a few hours had passed; it was still late, still nighttime. All you wanted to do was crawl back into bed and let the warmth of his body draw you to sleep.

You hadn’t even thought to stop at your own rooms, to slip back into your pajamas and leave all evidence of your jaunt out into the night hidden from his view. You were just too damn tired, the need to be back in the safety of Steve’s embrace just too much.

You stripped as you walked through the quiet apartment: your jacket thrown over the back of the couch, your boots left beside the bedroom door, your jeans in a messy puddle on the floor, tank top and bra at the foot of the bed. You had meant to retrieve the top, wear it as a nightshirt, but you saw his eyes glittering in the dark and you changed your mind, sliding into the bed wearing only a pair of simple black panties.

Steve’s arms sought you, hand stroking down your back as he watched you, his head still on his pillow.

“I woke up and you were gone,” he said softly.

You gave a weak smile. “Just had a little thing I had to do.”

“Should I be concerned?” he asked, brow furrowed.

You sighed and shook your head. “I came back to you, didn’t I?” you replied, and he nodded, heavy hand settling at the small of your back, fingers playing with the lace edging of your panties.

“You did,” he agreed, a small pleased smile on his face. “Still. Missed you bein’ here.”

You had forgotten how sparsely dressed you were until you watched the way Steve’s eyes dropped down across your skin, following your curves down to your thighs and back up again. By the time his tongue flicked out to dampen his lower lip, you knew you were sunk; exhausted or not, little sparks of desire were already flickering up and down your spine from the weight of Steve’s gaze.

“Maybe I could make it up to you,” you offered, reaching to trail a hand down his chest, smiling at the small shudder he gave at your touch. That always amazed you, the way you could ramp him up and make him shiver just as hard as he could do to you; Steve looked at you like you were something special, some imaginary pin-up come to life. You never felt sexier than when his eyes were on you, never more beautiful than when he touched you and whispered how amazing you were, how amazing you made him feel, in your ear.

“Yeah?” Steve asked, leaning back against his pillow. “How do you s’pose you’d do that, babydoll?” he asked, and you couldn’t help the little shiver you gave at his words. The first time he’d called you that, you’d been gasping beneath him, breathing hard and shaking with the thundering sensations the super-soldier was drawing out upon your body.

You moved to straddle his waist, smirking to yourself at how often you’d found yourself in this position, and laughing when Steve quirked an eyebrow at you and folded his hands behind his head. You laughed and took the bait, leaning down to kiss him, sucking on his lower lip and pulling away just soon enough for him to chase you. You pushed him back down and he huffed a laugh that turned to a groan when you knelt forward again, brushing your lips behind his ear before biting at the tender skin there.

When you straightened he followed you again, pressing his lips to the hollow of your throat and pulling your closer, dragging his teeth across your skin and down between your breasts before enveloping one rosy nipple with his lips and drawing out from you a sharp gasp. Steve knew well what he was doing, just the right pressure, just the perfect application of tongue and teeth to make you shake, his name falling from your lips in a moan you hadn’t meant to escape so loudly.

He moved so quickly that you barely registered it at all until your back hit the mattress. His mouth began to move, pausing to place a soft, gentle kiss to the scars on your shoulder before venturing south with wet little nibbling kisses against your skin. You couldn’t help but giggle when he reached a ticklish spot just above your navel, and he glanced up at you with a cheeky grin before resuming his path, making sure to rub the flutter of his eyelashes there as he moved along, making you laugh again even as you twined your fingers in his hair. 

You felt rather than heard the tearing of the fabric of your panties, and before you could even half-heartedly berate him -- the contents of your underwear drawer had seriously been depleted since Steve had discovered his fondness for tearing them off of you -- he had licked a solid stripe up your slit and you’d thrown your head back against the sheets, all complaints dying on your tongue.

He was a consummate tease, always giving you a little of what you wanted before turning away to kiss bruises into the tender skin of your thighs and nuzzle gently at the join of your hip. Steve liked to draw it out, work you up until you were strung taut and dizzy and then stop, forcing you to whimper and beg for what you needed. He loved to hear you, he told you, the urgency in your voice only spurring him on further, making him want you even more. 

You never disappointed. 

When he finally gave you wanted you wanted, diving in deep and plunging his tongue, hot and thick, between your folds, you couldn’t help the cry that escaped you, or the way you pulled and twisted his hair between your fingers.

You came with his name on your lips, panting wildly and trembling hard against the sweat-soaked sheets of the bed you shared. Steve started kissing his way back to your lips and when you looked at him, saw how wrecked he was, the flush in his cheeks and his hair twisted every which way by your hands, lips still slick as he licked at them, chasing the taste of you, you could almost melt. 

He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a sudden loud pounding coming from the wall behind the bed.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” you heard Bucky’s angry shout from the other side of the wall. “It’s three in the fucking morning!”

Your eyes met Steve’s and you began to laugh, long and hard and breathless, even as he scooped you up into his arms and rolled you onto your back, fitting himself between your thighs. He clearly wasn’t finished with you, still ready, still waiting, dark boxers stuck to his skin with sweat and excitement. 

“I guess it’s kind of late to be so… loud,” you said, laughing softly. You reached up and pushed a sweaty lock of hair out of Steve’s eyes and he preened at the attention, nuzzling your hand and then nipping at your fingertips until you giggled.

“Still want you, babydoll,” Steve told you, rolling his hips in evidence of his interest. “Not even halfway through with you yet tonight.”

“Well,” you told him, settling your hands at the back of his waistband and pushing it slowly down. “Let’s see how angry we can make him, wanna?”

Steve grinned and dove to kiss you in reply.


	31. Chapter 31

You slept deep and long, waking up into the late morning hours. The bed was empty and you could hear the television playing in the living room, though the volume was kept so low that you couldn’t discern any more than a faint murmuring. You sat up and smiled when you saw that the clothes you had left in a trail from the door had been scooped up and thrown in a hamper, your boots set neatly on the open closet floor. You smiled to yourself at how domestic it all was.

You needed a shower, but you were too tired to bother. Your arms and shoulder were aching from the dangerous climb you’d made the night before; your hips and legs were about as stiff from your fun between the sheets after you’d returned. You had enough clothes piled up in Steve’s laundry to pull a fresh tank top and pair of shorts from the dresser drawers, slipping them on quickly before heading into the living room.

You could smell the coffee wafting in from the kitchen as soon as you opened the door, and were about to make some smart remark about Steve finally taking the initiative to brew a pot on his own, when the sight on the living room floor made you stop and grin. There sat Steve, in a tight t-shirt and pair of loose sleep pants, surrounded by brightly colored candy packages. He was picking them up one by own, examining the wrappers and grinning to himself at whatever memories they seemed to draw forward.

You had completely forgotten about the candy gift box, tucking it away in a cabinet to await his return. You’d gotten so caught up in just enjoying your time with Steve when he returned that it had just slipped your mind. Apparently, he had found it.

“Sorry,” Steve told you, a sheepish smile gracing his features. “Guess I should have waited. I just wanted to take a peek inside and I got so excited, I didn’t even think they made most of this stuff anymore…”

You laughed and walked towards him, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “No need to be sorry, Sugar. It was for you, you didn’t have to wait.”

You moved to the kitchen to get yourself a cup of coffee, and you smiled when you saw a clean mug waiting for you on the counter, the spoon Steve had used to stir the sugar into his own cup rinsed and set across the sink divider, waiting for your own use with the touch of cream you liked to add. Sometimes it all became so effortlessly domestic that you forgot that it wasn’t real, that you were just playing house with a superhero.

It was too nice to pretend otherwise.

When you joined Steve back in the living room, sitting on the couch next to where he sat on the floor, for a moment it felt like Christmas morning. Steve was talking a mile a minute, telling you about each piece of candy as he pulled it out of the box, little stories about his childhood, about Brooklyn, about Bucky. He spoke so brightly and animatedly that you couldn’t help but smile in return, his childlike exuberance for the sweets and the memories attached to them near infectious.

Stave had you try the ones he liked best, the Walnettos and the licorice snaps, root beer barrels and Squirrel Nut Zippers. You had laughed at that last one, telling him there was a band by that name these days, and he had grinned, glad to see that some remnant of his youth was still alive and well in the new century.

He paused when he came upon the light purple and silver packaging of an oddly scented pack of gum. You had thought it strange when you saw it listed on the package, chewing gum flavored with violets, but there was something soft in his expression as he ran his fingertips across the paper and foil packaging of the CHoward’s violet scented gum. He didn’t open the package, but held it to his nose, inhaling deeply the floral scent.

“My Ma always liked this,” he finally said quietly, and you felt your heart break a little in your chest. Steve rarely talked about anyone from his past, save Bucky; so far as you knew, his mother died when he was just a boy.

“Steve?” you asked quietly. You reached out to touch his shoulder and he gave a small smile, still holding the gum with one hand even as he reached to cover yours with his own.

“She loved the scent of flowers, always said this was better than the real thing, ‘cos she could have it with her all day and it wouldn’t wilt or fade,” he went on, and when he looked up at you, there were tears shining in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, squeezing your hand. 

The apartment door swung open and Bucky walked in, glaring at the two of you with tired eyes, heading straight for the coffee pot without even a word. The spell was broken then and Steve looking at you with a sly grin. He knew well by then every move to make you scream the loudest and he had employed every one the night before, even rocking the bed until the headboard started banging the wall.

You figured you were lucky that a metal fist hadn’t punched through the plaster.

Bucky returned to the living room with a steaming mug of coffee and sat in the armchair beside the couch, glare flashing from Steve to you and back again.

“Think you’re real cute, don’t ya?” he said dryly.

Steve just laughed and threw a box of Red Hots at the other man, grinning when a surprised smile broke out on Bucky’s face as he caught them.

“Well I’ll be damned!” Bucky said in surprise, tearing the box open. “They still make these?” The scent of sweet cinnamon filled the air and Bucky all but groaned as he popped a few of the bright red candy pieces in his mouth. You hadn’t even know the brand was that old.

“Didn’t I tell you my girl takes care of me, Buck?” Steve said, rubbing your knee with one hand even while reaching for the half-sized box of Cracker Jack spread out on the table. “Didn’t I?”

You just smiled and took a sip of your coffee.

 

The text came later that afternoon. You had sent photos to your client’s number to confirm completion of the job, and had wondered how soon -- if at all -- that you’d hear back from them. They requested a meet in the same dive bar but earlier now, in just an hour’s time. Steve had gone into a meeting with his team that you knew would last a long while, judging by the voices you could hear echoing into the corridor, so you scribbled a quick note to leave on the door and left to take care of business.

It was the same weaselly man you had encountered at the first meet, but this time he seemed in much better spirits, clearly happy to see the completion of your work and laying on the compliments a little thickly. He kept trying to touch you, your hand, your shoulder, and you finally had to threaten him to force him to keep his hands to himself.

“Don’t we have business to discuss?” you asked, impatient.

He grinned, the thin hairs of his mustache grown over his lip shining with grease and spit as he spoke. “Yes, of course, of course,” he agreed. “My superiors were quite impressed with your work, my dear. They feel you are ready for the next target. Have you heard of the First Provincial Bank of New York?”


	32. Chapter 32

By the time you left the impromptu meeting, you felt sick. You’d already stopped and retched on your way there, earning glares and foul expressions from passerby as you heaved bile in an alleyway, but you couldn’t help it. The mustached little weasel had gleefully told you everything -- what they wanted, how long they had been planning it, and how they had worked to lure you out.

You hadn’t done any major jobs in a long while when you decided to poke around a hotel room in search of something interesting and earned a few rounds to your shoulder for your trouble. You’d already made more money than you’d ever need and had valuables stored away in several major cities, just in case of a rainy day. The truth of the matter was that you had been contemplating retirement; your clients seemed more and more like people you didn’t care to associate with, and the thrill of the escape, of solving a puzzle, was beginning to wear thin. The only real joy you had been getting had been taking from those you sought to punish.

Not even Natasha knew that you’d stolen back a few items you’d procured for others, returning them to their rightful owners. You’d even taken a few things from the sort of people you despised, crooked politicians and bankrolled brokers who robbed their clients blind, dropping them at various charity shops and smiling at the ensuing news stories about a mysterious Good Samaritan. 

Knowing now what you had managed to get yourself into, you felt vile to your own eyes, repulsed by your own past. It was time to break your silence on the matter; you needed to speak to Steve, Natasha, and the others. 

It was no longer something you wanted to handle on your own.

When you returned to the Tower, the argument you had heard getting started as you left was still going on, moved now to the common lounge. It was clear that they had tried to move on, leave it behind for the day to pick up at a later date, but the group hadn’t been able to let it go. They were all there, crowded around the room: Steve, Bucky, Clint, and Natasha on the couches, Bruce in a chair and Sam sitting on the arm, with Tony standing nearby.

“Waiting for it to go up for sale is just going to make this more difficult,” Tony was saying as you crept into the room, shaking his head. “Once word gets out, you’ll have every black market dealer and sleazebag dictator chomping at the bit.”

Steve shook his head and leaned forward in his seat. “How can we make a move when we don’t even know what it is?” he responded.

“We may not have specifics, but we know it’s weapon tech,” Bruce pointed out. “That makes this more dangerous. We can’t… we can’t do anything through official channels. It will only end with what could be a catastrophic weapon in the hands of a government agency.”

“Better ours than anyone else’s,” Steve muttered.

“Says the guy who was frozen solid when Hiroshima and Nagasaki went up in mushroom clouds,” Bruce replied darkly, one of the few unkind tones you’d ever heard from him.

“Guys,” Sam said suddenly, spotting you standing in the doorway. He nodded in your direction and several heads turned your way, Steve sitting up a little straighter and clearing his throat.

“We can talk about this later,” he told the others sternly.

You shook your head, leaning hard against the doorframe. You hadn’t realized how hard this would be, bringing your problems to the forefront… bringing them to Steve. You felt nauseous and dizzy, and you were certain if you tried to step away from the support of the wall, you’d hit the floor.

“Now’s as good a time as any,” you told him with a weak smile.

“Shop talk, ptichka,” Natasha told you, shaking her head. 

“We can all take some time to think on this, maybe reconvene in the morning…” Clint started to say, glancing back at you before addressing the group.

“It’s the Carthage Bomb,” you said, interrupting him. It became so quiet that you were certain you would have heard a pin drop in the usually boisterous room.

“How…?” Tony started, frowning. The name didn’t register with all of them, but you could see the surprise and worry in Bruce’s eyes, and the way Bucky’s mouth dropped open at the mention of the bomb.

“Someone figured out where it is. The formula,” you told him, throat thick and mouth dry. You gripped hard at the wall, knuckles white with the effort. Your head was spinning. “They know where it is, and they want me to steal it for them.”

 

It became something of an impromptu history lesson. It took only a glance at your ashy face for Steve to realize how poorly you were feeling and he had moved to your side, letting you lean on him as he guided you back to the couch, where Bucky moved aside to let you sink onto the cushions. You were clearly overwrought, and Steve put an arm around you, allowing you to lean into him in your seat.

“From what I read,” Bruce began, “They were working on the Carthage Bomb around the same time as the H-bomb. It was the same concept. Destructive, unstoppable. Potentially world-ending.”

“So it’s the formula for an alternate nuke?” Clint asked, hands clasped in front of him. History wasn’t so much his strong suit; his life took place in the now, and that was where he kept his focus. It wasn’t as though something so esoteric were common knowledge.

You only knew about it due to your father’s predilection for World War II documentaries on the Military History Channel.

“The simple answer is ‘yes’,” Tony agreed. He was leaning against the bar now, arms crossed in front of him. “The idea was a little more… let’s say ‘nefarious’.”

“It’s salting the earth,” you filled in, earning a quizzical glance from Clint.

“Ancient Roman history,” Natasha told Clint, nudging him with her elbow. “When they conquered Carthage, they sowed salt over the ruins of the city, so nothing could grow and no one could live there ever again. A bit dramatic but the symbolism of it has lasted centuries.”

“The Carthage Bomb is meant to have the same effect, only a thousand times worse,” Bucky spoke up, surprising the others. “I remember… I think I remember… hearing people talk about it. Enough firepower to level a city with a chemical component for kicks.”

“We’re talking about a toxic warhead,” Tony added, shaking his head. “Fragmenting when it hits, a chemical compound stored inside that self-replicates and pollutes the area.”

“More like infects it,” Bruce broke in. He was beginning to pale, looking about as sick as you felt. “It’s supposed to decimate the drop zone. Infect the soil, the air, the groundwater, and spread far and deep. Destroy it completely, kill everyone and make it so no one can even go near the place again.”

You sighed heavily. “Turns out the specs and formula are in a safe deposit box at the First Provincial Bank of New York. I’m hitting it in two days.”


	33. Chapter 33

You had thought there would be more discussion, an argument or two, or even that you would be shuttered out of some grand meeting to consider options on what needed to be done. You hadn’t expected Natasha to pipe up and quietly suggest they adjourn the discussion until the morning, giving everyone time to calm down. You were expected to make a full report on what you had discovered -- everything, starting with Benny’s failed heist attempt -- but it could wait at least until you had some time to breathe.

For that, you were grateful, and told Natasha as much. She gave you a rare smile and an even rarer embrace; you were friends, but you could count on one hand the number of times you had shared any physical displays of affection in front of an audience. She squeezed you tightly and rubbed a flattened palm gently between your shoulder blades.

“We’ll figure this out,” she told you, trying to sound reassuring. You offered only a weak smile in return. 

 

Steve walked you back to his rooms in silence. The weight of the conversation in the lounge hung heavy in the air between you, and you didn’t know quite what to say. You had been certain that whatever it was that Benny had gotten mixed up in was big, but even your imagination couldn’t have taken it to quite this level.

Money, of course, had been your first guess. Jewels. Maybe some sort of paperwork, incriminating evidence somewhere tucked away. But this? Never. Never this.

Steve closed the door behind you and you turned to face him, searching for the right words. You could feel it in your bones, that whatever this was between the two of you would be drawing to a close. You had seen to that -- you had gone behind his back, snuck around, drawing you both into a plot so far above your head that it seemed almost dizzying. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted suddenly. “I should have… I don’t know, I should have…”

“What? Hey, no, baby, c’mon, calm down,” Steven said, shaking his head. He leaned up against the back of the couch and circled your waist with his arms, pulling you forward just enough to leave you feeling safe and sheltered in his embrace.

It scared you sometimes, how good this felt. How right. 

Even worse in knowing that it would eventually come tumbling down.

He gave you a small smile. “Maybe if I hadn’t been so thick-headed and listened to you to begin with, this would all be over, right?” he told you.

You heaved a deep breath and closed your eyes, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “It’s not that simple,” you breathed out, the words falling heavy from your lips.

He drew his hands up to your shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze, rubbing circles there with his thumbs as he breathed out your name in a sigh.

“It can be,” Steve told you softly. “It can be as simple as we want it to be. Don’t do this, don’t shut down on me.”

Something flickered in your chest at his words, something small and breathless, a little bit like hope. The idea that there was a future here, something beyond this one tangled mess of banks and bombs that, in all honesty, you didn’t want any part of.

There was snaking the occasional diamond necklace or forging a Picasso, and then there was getting your hands on world-ending information.

You weren’t cut out for that kind of work. And the idea that Steve would want anything to do with you if he knew how badly you wanted it all to just go away was beyond hope.

But at least you could have tonight.

“Let’s play pretend,” you offered quietly. “Just for today. For tonight. No… no bombs, no plots, no superheroes. 'Just us', remember?”

Steve smiled, and that flicker in your chest sprang to life again. You loved these smiles, the ones where he looked up at you from beneath lashes too thick and beautiful to be real, but there they were. The ones not everyone got to see, his mouth a little crooked, blue eyes alight with something you wouldn’t name. 

Even better when those smiling lips would press to yours, whispering things against your mouth and drawing soft little whimpers before he so much as touched you.

 

It was early evening but you let him take you to bed, and take you he did, lifting you up and carrying you off as though he were some gallant knight and you his fair damsel in distress. For once in your life, you wanted that: to be treated as something precious, something breakable. Something to be protected.

His hands, calloused and rough from his work, from the fighting, were still so gentle against your body. He undressed you slowly, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed with soft, open mouthed kisses and feather light flicks of his tongue. It was almost excruciating, the waiting, the mounting exhilaration; he touched you so tenderly that it drew tears to your eyes and when he saw them, he kissed them away.

It was different this time; you could feel it in the air. You were certainly no stranger to Steve’s bed, his body becoming as familiar to you as your own, but there was something else there, heavy and thick in the atmosphere but not smothering, no; it was welcoming and warm.

When you arched your back with a gasp, Steve slid his arm between your body and the bed, cradling you against his chest with some wild need to feel your skin against his own wherever he could. He was mumbling, muttering as he kissed you, rocking so slowly inside you that you thought the pace would drive you mad with want, the delicious tease of it slowly building a fire at your core. 

Your climax crashed over you like ocean waves, the tide rushing back in as it began to ebb; it was too much, but not enough, cries falling from your lips as little more than whimpers. You saw stars, blazes of bright color and warmth, your eyes squeezed shut but just as soon flying open again to see him, to watch Steve reach that same precipice. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck with the softest groan, the words coming unbidden, _those words_ , kissed into your shoulder; you would never have held him to it, knowing anything could tumble from a lover’s mouth in the throes of passion, but he repeated them, again and again, three little words etched into your skin with his lips and written across your heart.

He held you close through the night and you slept soundly, letting yourself believe that nothing would change.


	34. Chapter 34

The discussion the next afternoon went about as well as you had expected: they were shutting you out completely. 

It made you frustrated, and angry; you had done all of the legwork, gotten all of the information necessary to see this thing through. And you had a personal stake it in as well -- Benny had been a friend, and this damn bomb had gotten him killed. You needed to make it right. You owed him that much.

You told the others all of that and more, but they still wouldn’t budge.

You threw your arms up in the air in exasperation. “This is ridiculous!” you told them, pacing angrily around the common lounge. 

“Look, it’s not that we don’t trust you…” Tony started, standing in the center of the room, and you whirled on him.

“Oh really?” you asked in reply. “That’s pretty rich, coming from Mr. ‘Don’t Touch My Stuff’. And considering I never said a word about it being a matter of trust, it’s a little suspect to me that you’d even bring it up.”

Tony frowned. “You did take my bike,” he reminded. You hadn’t told him outright that you had borrowed the Zero S from the garage, but you knew he had surveillance everywhere; he had probably known the moment you had borrowed it.

You rolled your eyes. “And I returned it. Is that really even an issue here?”

“Calm down!” Steve snapped, and when you turned to glare at him, his expression softened. He stood a few feet away from you, and took a small step forward as he spoke. “Please, just… let us take care of this. This is what we do, remember?” He gave you a small, hopeful smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said coldly. “Am I good enough to warm your bed, but not to work with you?”

Steve looked scandalized, and more than little hurt. “You know that’s not what I meant!”

You shook your head and continued your pacing, too upset to see reason. 

“You won’t even get near it without me, don’t you get it?” you ranted. “It’s all set up for me to retrieve. It’s a god damn bank vault, you can’t just walk in there in your super-suits and demand access! And even if you could, it would put the damn thing on the map, wouldn’t it? Or right into the hands of the government. Is that what you want?”

Bruce was leaning against the wall across the room and he gave a low exhale at your words. “God, no,” he said, shaking his head. “If anything, it should be destroyed.”

Steve glanced to him sharply. “I don’t believe we’ve decided anything just yet,” he replied.

Bruce shook his head, clearly agitated. “Christ, Steve, can you not be a boy scout for ten minutes and listen to reason? This isn’t some half-assed technology, we’re talking about a weapon of mass destruction on a scale that could…”

Natasha groaned from her place on the couch. “Can we not start that argument again?” she asked, pinching the bridge of her nose. “For a moment, all we need to agree on is getting it out of the reach of whoever it is trying to steal it.”

“And I could tell you who that was if you’d just let me finish the plan as intended!” you told her, incredulous that they weren’t listening to reason. “Natasha, I can do this. You _know_ I can do this, please, tell them. For god’s sake, tell them!”

All eyes turned to the redhead who regarded you for a long silent moment, her stoic expression masking anything she might be feeling. “She can do this,” she finally spoke up.

“Absolutely not!” Steve said, shaking his head. “Jesus, Natasha, what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking your girlfriend is completely capable of finishing what she started,” she replied evenly. “She’s right, Steve. We’re not going to get into the vault.”

“Which is why the plan is to surveil the place until whoever she’s s’posed to hand the goods off to shows up,” Bucky told her, frowning. He was sitting against a sideboard, arms cross over his chest as the argument went on around him.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Because the wait-and-see routine has always worked out so well in the past. Why are we even arguing this?”

“Good question,” you told her. “I didn’t even have to tell any of you about this. I could have just finished the damn job on my own. I brought you all in as a damn courtesy.”

“If this is your idea of a courtesy, kiddo, maybe your boy-toy there oughta teach you some of his old-fashioned manners,” Clint spoke up dryly. He was perched on the arm of the couch, sitting beside Natasha, and had been watching the exchange with a calm, calculating expression.

“You know me about as well as Nat does,” you said in reply. “You tell them, Clint. I got this. I can handle it. Please.”

Clint heaved a sigh, glancing from you to Natasha and then back again. He gave you half a grin. “Trying to get me in trouble here?” he asked you, and then shook his head with another sigh. “Noxie, I know what you’re capable of and I would never tell you to sit it out… unless it was something this big. I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Your eyes widened and you let out a frustrated groan. “I can’t fucking believe this!” you snapped.

“Really Clint?” Natasha told him, arching a slender eyebrow.

“Really Nat?” he echoed back, standing up. “Tell me you weren’t scared shitless when she walked in, half-dead and bloody. Tell me you didn’t sit waiting in the med bay, afraid she wouldn’t wake up. How many more people are we gonna watch die? This is big, you know it is. I don’t wanna lose anymore people we care about.”

“Neither do I,” Steve added, voice soft. You knew his words were directed just to you, and your stomach twisted at the thought. He said your name quietly and took another step towards you, and you knew you were close to breaking. You couldn’t let that happen.

You took a step back, raising your hands up in front of you. “I need… I need to go lay down. For a little while,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I just… I don’t want to deal with this right now.”

Steve nodded. “I’ll come with you,” he offered, and you shook your head.

“No,” you told him. “I just need some time alone, okay?”

The look on his face hit you about a bad as the gunshots you had taken to your shoulder some months before, only this time centered right in your chest. He was absolutely crestfallen, brow furrowed and blue eyes a little to bright. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself, watching as you turned and headed for the elevator.

“Alright,” he relented quietly, barely loud enough for you to hear. It took everything in you not to break your stride and turn back to him, but you stayed strong; no one spoke as the elevator doors closed behind you.

 

You stayed alone in your own rooms that night for the first time in weeks. You didn’t get much sleep at all, the room too empty and quiet for your liking, the bed too cold. Steve was like a furnace, and would keep his arms wrapped around you for most of the night; no amount of pillows and blankets could substitute for that warmth and comfort. 

You hated the quiet. You need the shuffling of blankets, the creak of the bed, the soft sighs and muttered half-phrases he made in his sleep. You wanted to feel his hands reaching out across the sheets when you’d drifted away in your sleep, pulling you back into his arms. You wanted the soft presses of his lips to your forehead, your shoulder, when he’d wake and smile to see you there beside him. 

Natasha came knocking at your door at some point, quietly asking if you wanted to talk, but you ignored her. You’d gone down at some point in the afternoon and never resurfaced, keeping to yourself to keep from breaking, from giving in. There was nothing to eat but a few bottles of water and half a box of stale cereal, but you weren’t hungry anyway.

More than anything, you wished you had just left it all alone to begin with, ignored the nagging little voice at the back of your mind telling you something was wrong and never searched any further.

You may have cried a little, but you’d never admit it.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one but it seemed the appropriate place to cut it.

When morning broke, you had already decided what you had to do. Much of the common area in the Tower was deserted as the team readied themselves for their planned mission; they kept the details from you for the most part but you had been able to garner a few. It seemed it would primarily be a wait-and-see endeavor, with several points of surveillance for them to watch and see who would be showing up to look for you when you didn’t arrive as planned. They weren’t even suiting up for it, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

You were in the communal kitchen, poking a spoon at a mostly untouched bowl of fruit and yogurt, when Steve found you. He was dressed casually, brown leather bomber jacket and jeans, and hovered in the doorway, seemingly debating whether or not to approach.

You gave him a timid smile. “Hey,” you called, abandoning your spoon on the table.

He took your words as leave to move forward, and slid into the seat across from yours. “Hey,” he responded lamely. 

The air was heavy and tense around you, weighed down with a few thousand unspoken words. You honestly didn’t know what to say; you knew what this was, that you’d reached the breaking point and after today, nothing could ever go back the way it was. But Steve was watching you, those big blue eyes full of so much uncertainty that you couldn’t bear to let him think it could ever really end. You gave a small smile, just a twitch at the corner of your mouth, and reached your hands across the table, palms up.

Steve breathed a sigh that you knew must come from relief, and covered your hands with his own, hooking his thumbs against yours to give a gentle squeeze.

“You had me really scared there,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, casting your gaze down at the table. “For what I said. I know that you don’t think of me that way -- that I’m just someone good to hold onto for now, but I… I was really angry, Steve.”

“I know,” he told you, and sighed again. “This isn’t going to be easy, you know? I… I don’t know how Clint and Natasha manage it, or Tony and Pepper… baby, I never thought I’d be in a position to try and balance both sides of my life like this. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped from your lips, the wry smile he gave you almost breaking your heart. There were tears in your eyes but you knew he didn’t understand why; to Steve it must mean happiness, relief. To you, it was something else entirely.

You stood quickly and he followed suit, and you let yourself fall into his embrace. It felt so safe and warm, you could have stayed there forever, just wrapped up in his arms. It was too tempting an idea, even worse when you felt him relax, press his nose to your hair and breathe in.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve asked, voice so soft that you’d nearly missed it.

You pulled away just a little, taking his face in your hands. A tear had slipped free and you tried to pretend it wasn’t there, even as he reached to wipe it away with his thumb.

“You never have to ask,” you told him quietly. “Never.”

Steve gave you a look that made your breath catch in your throat, and your heart drop to your stomach. It was a little shy, a little sweet, but more than anything? It was grateful. Like he was lucky somehow, to know you. To have this. To be allowed it. And you were torn between wonderment that anyone should look at you like that, and shame for what you were going to do.

 

He was playful as he pulled you closed, kissed your forehead and the tip of your nose before dropping his lips to yours. Every kiss with Steve seemed like the first and the last, so much shared between you with the slightest brush of his lips to yours. When he deepened the kiss you melted, just needing the feel of his arms around, circling your own around his waist and holding on tight.

“I meant it,” he mumbled against your lips, voice deep and wrecked from just a kiss. “What I said, it wasn’t just… I meant to say it, I wanted to, I…”

You forced a soft laugh. “I know,” you told him, pulling away just far enough to drop a kiss atop his nose; he grinned and dropped his head, allowing you to repeat the action on his forehead. “You need to go. You have work to do,” you reminded, and gave him a swift pat on the ass.

He pulled away reluctantly, but you could see the relief in his eyes. The tense way he had held his shoulders had given way to a relaxed posture and he smiled at you, your favorite one, the flirty little grin that only you ever saw.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he told you, shaking his head.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” you replied, and couldn’t help the smile on your lips as he walked away, heading out to perform what he must have felt was his duty. He was gone before your smile fell, never saw the way you sighed or the way your shoulders hunched. He certainly never noticed the communications earpiece you had slipped out of his back pocket, where you knew he always kept a spare.

You shoved it deep into your own pocket and headed back down to your own rooms, your attempt at breakfast long forgotten.

You had work to do.


	36. Chapter 36

You were dressed and out of the Tower within twenty minutes of the team leaving, earpiece in place. They had wanted you to dress the part of the socialite, heels and pearls and designer clothes, but you refused; you were adamant that you would do the job your own way, and that happened to entail your usual attire of dark jeans, tall boots, a black t-shirt, and your leather jacket. 

You had no idea who Greasy Mustache was working for, but there was no way you were going in unarmed. You made sure your Colt was loaded and slipped it into the custom holster, keeping an extra clip in another inside pocket, just in case. You slipped the leather handroll containing your precision lockpick tools in the back waistband of your jeans, hidden out of sight beneath your jacket.

You glanced around the room and sighed; there would be no time to collect the rest of your belongings and return them to storage. Your clothes, your laptop, the rest of your tools, you would have to abandon. You were certain by days end your, your full clearance to the Tower would be revoked; there would be no going back.

It was going to be rough, cutting yourself off and starting over. Natasha would certainly be angry, and Clint would side with her on anything; you’d be lucky if they deigned to speak to you again. The rest of the friends you had made here would certainly go the same way, and Steve… oh, Steve. That was going to hurt, as badly as it would to lose Nat and Clint, but in a whole different way. 

You hadn’t lied to him, not really. He would never have to ask to kiss you. You just knew that after today, he wouldn’t want to.

The little silver case you had lifted from Marla Digby’s penthouse was sitting atop your dresser and you popped it open with little effort. Inside were a few pieces of jewelry, mostly paste, and a small silver key. You’d be needing that today and you pocketed it quickly, then headed for the elevator.

 

You were a bundle of nerves as the elevator made its descent. For the hell of it, you were going to take the Zero S again and leave it someplace safe where Tony would eventually find it. You took a deep breath, tapping your hands against your thighs, trying to make yourself believe that this was your only choice.

They hadn’t given you any other.

A thought suddenly occurred to you. “JARVIS?” you asked softly, addressing the Tower’s genteel AI attendant. 

“Yes, Miss Nox?” JARVIS replied, voice sounding all too human in the small elevator.

“Will you give Steve… Captain Rogers a message for me when he returns?” you asked.

“Of course Miss Nox,” JARVIS said. “Would you like to record a personal message, or simply leave something for me to relay?”

“Just tell him… tell him I’m sorry,” you said, sighing again. “Just tell him that.”

“Gladly, Miss Nox. However, it is my duty to inform you that Ms. Romanov has left you a message that I was to deliver should you leave the Tower in her absence today,” Jarvis responded.

You froze. “What did she say?”

“She requested that I ask you 'not to do anything stupid',” JARVIS replied. “My apologies for the language, Miss Nox, but Ms. Romanov was adamant that you receive that message.”

You snorted. Leave it to Natasha to know. “It’s all right JARVIS. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, Miss Nox,” the AI said, and the elevator doors opened into the garage. 

 

There Zero S was right where you had left it; you’d been half-certain you’d find it with the back wheel chained to the wall, or with a pair of metal boots on both spokes. Tony had never mentioned outright that you had taken it, not until the disastrous discussion about what you had learned and what needed to be done about it, but you had known he knew about it the very next morning, just by the arched eyebrows sent your way every now and again.

You were certain he probably never would have mentioned it at all, had you not taken such a cheap shot at him when you were angry.

You had only one stop to make, at a mailbox rental storefront, before heading for the bank. You’d been practicing signing Ms. Digby’s name since the plan had been explained, and you had it down perfectly. Now all you needed were the credentials they had mailed to you, a passport and driver’s license in Digby’s name, featuring your photograph. You had thought the penthouse job had been only to test your abilities, but Greasy Mustache had explained it to you.

The only way to get into the safe deposit vault at the First Provincial Bank of New York was with an ID, a signature, and a key. Greasy and his ilk had a list of those who held boxes at the bank, and Digby was the perfect patsy.

You doubt she had ever noticed you had been in her room; there hadn’t been a word in the news or even a peep over the network of thieves and fences that you tapped into now again, to keep tabs on the industry.

Last night, you were heartbroken.

Today, you were Marla Digby.

Tomorrow? You’d be in the wind.


	37. Chapter 37

There was a parking garage off Broadway and Bleecker that set you within decent walking distance of the bank, and you left the Zero S there, helmet strapped to the seat and the key tucked up inside. You doubted anyone would bother with it, at least until the lot attendant noticed it had been there a few days and tracked Tony down to pick it up.

With nothing left in the way of preparations, you patted yourself down one last time, checking to make sure you had all of the necessary supplies and paperwork on hand, and set out on a brisk walk to the bank. It was cold out and you could see your breath in the frigid air, and you slipped on your gloves a little earlier than planned. The Fratelli Orsini gloves weren’t much for protecting from the cold, the the leather designed for driving rather than fending off the Manhattan winter chill, but they were better than nothing.

It’s not like you had ever used them for their intended purpose, anyway. You’re certain the designer had never thought that their careful craftsmanship would be perfect for picking locks and cracking safes. 

When you rounded the corner off of Bleecker and started heading towards the bank in the center of the block, you slipped the earpiece you had stolen out of Steve’s back pocket into your ear, running your thumb across the sensor to turn it on as you put it in place, the barely-there microphone jutting out just enough to pick up sound if you spoke, but not enough to be seen. You couldn’t see any of them, but you knew they were there: rooftops, windows, passersby on the street, all trying to seem inconspicuous and act as though they belonged. You knew they would spot you before you reached the bank’s revolving front door, and you thought it best you had an ear to the ground when they did.

“...pretty quiet, maybe they got cold feet,” Clint was saying over the comm. “Haven’t seen a guy matching the description Nox gave us anywhere near the place.”

You had described Greasy Mustache to them the day before; he was your handler of sorts, for whoever had set up the job. He was supposed to be the one to meet you outside the bank once you had gotten the goods.

“Doubtful,” Tony’s voice responded. “There’s still some time before they expected her, they aren’t going to leave themselves out in the open before their scheduled meet.”

You heard a sharp intake of breath over the comm and you knew you had been spotted; worse still, you knew the sound, even in absence of his voice. It figured that Steve would be the one to see you first, just to make this all so much harder. Wherever he was, he must have been near Natasha, because you heard her speak next.

“I told you this would happen,” she said simply.

You couldn’t help but snort. “I had hoped I wasn’t quite so predictable,” you responded, blowing any chance you had of sneaking in undetected once and for all.

A few muttering, shuffling noises came over the line, the others recognizing your voice and seeking you out on the street. You hoped no one would try and intercept you; that could get ugly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” came Steve’s voice, steely and cold in a way you had never heard before. That one hurt, biting at the edge of your composure, but you did your best to tamp it down.

It would do no one any good getting emotional at a time like this.

“I’m finishing what I started,” you replied simply, quickening your pace. You could see someone moving towards you out of your peripheral vision, a rough glance at their size and shape telling you that it was most likely Bucky, but you skipped out of his grasp and slipped into the revolving door, leaving him behind on the street.

You heard him swear over the comm, clearly agitated that he hadn’t been able to stop you.

“I suppose JARVIS gave you my message,” Natasha drawled over the line. She seemed less upset by your appearance, more resigned than anything, which only made sense.

“He did,” you agreed. “I chose to ignore it.”

Natasha huffed. “I thought you might.”

“C’mon kiddo,” Clint spoke, voice a little pleading. “Give it up. Get out of there, before something bad happens.”

You didn’t respond, instead approaching a polite looking woman at a marble topped service desk, and presenting your freshly minted identification.

“Good afternoon,” you said amiably. You may not have looked the part of a socialite, but you could certainly put on the airs when you had to. “I’d like to access my safe deposit box today, if possible.”

“Of course, Ms. Digby!” the woman responded, smiling widely. Her teeth were stained with a liberal amount of her own lipstick; you wondered idly if a socialite would alert her to that fact, or just let it go. 

You tried to seem disinterested, picking up a pamphlet for the bank’s latest investment offers to peruse while the clerk worked, knowing that if you were too enthusiastic it could raise suspicions. She tapped on her keyboard and then pulled out a sign-in book, where you scrawled Marla Digby’s name in a reasonable enough facsimile that the clerk nodded when comparing it against what she had on file.

“Who the hell is Ms. Digby?” Bucky asked over the comm, drawing you out of your thoughts. You couldn’t answer, not when in the company of the banking clerk, so you simply smiled at her and allowed her to lead you towards the back of the building.

“Jack will take you back,” she told you, stopping at another small desk towards the back of the main atrium of the building. He stood up and seemed at least a foot taller than you, his buzz cut and curt nod in greeting giving you the impression he was former military. He wore a suit but the coat wasn’t buttoned, and you could see the gun hanging from a holster inside; it looked like a Glock, typical issue for his kind of work.

“Do you have your key, ma’am?” Jack asked in a low voice.

You smiled and pulled the little silver key from your pocket, holding it aloft. “Right here,” you replied, and he nodded again, shooing off the toothy woman and directing you to follow him.

“Once inside, we will use our keys together to open your safe deposit box,” he said, voice going monotone with what must have been an often repeated spiel. “You will then have thirty uninterrupted minutes alone inside the vault to take care of whatever business you are here to attend to. After that, I will look in on you in ten minute intervals until such time as your business is completed. Do you understand the process?”

You gave a tittering laugh. “Of course,” you replied, as if this was all old news to you. The comm chatter had gone silent in your ear, and you would have thought they had severed you from the connection if not for the occasional noise of traffic or a deeply pulled breath.

Marla Digby’s box was in the newer section of the vault, numbered into the six hundreds. You followed the guard and inserted your keys together once you reached the box numbered 629; the frontplate opened and you were able to slide out the metal box inside, and Jack directed you to a table and chairs in the middle of the room.

“Please alert me when you are ready to leave,” he said, seeming bored with the whole situation.

“Absolutely, thanks for your assistance,” you called after him, making a face once he had turned his back. All of this prim and proper composure was beginning to wear on you.  
You sat down and moved to open the box you had retrieved, pretending to be perusing the contents until the guard left and closed the door behind him. Marla Digby’s safe deposit box was surprisingly dull, filled with little more than property deeds and some copies of financial paperwork. You snapped the lid shut as soon as the door closed, and got to work.

“Marla Digby has had a safe deposit box here for six years,” you spoke over the comm in a low voice. “The only way to get back here is with a key and some identification. I told you that you’d never get in without me.”

“We could have just opened a new box, you know,” Tony pointed out. He sounded a little perturbed.

You snorted. “Right, because that wouldn’t have been at all suspicious. Anyway, not one of you would be able to pop these bad boys open without me.”

You had taken off your gloves when you entered the bank but you slipped them back on, retrieving the leather roll full of your picks from your waistband. This wasn’t going to be easy; the key to Marla’s box had shown you that they used eight tumbler locks at the bank, two on each that had to be opened simultaneously. The intel you had been given told you that you were looking for a box numbered somewhere in the low 200s. 

That still left you with an awful lot to try and get through, and in a half an hour’s time.

You related as much over the comm and heard more than one answering groan of frustration.

“You might have mentioned that part before now,” Tony said, and in your mind’s eye, you could see him shaking his head.

“Well it was need-to-know,” you replied glibly. “And since you guys had no intention of actually entering the bank today? You didn’t need to know.”


	38. Chapter 38

You were halfway through your first box, one lock ready to be cranked and the other still fighting with you as you used needle pick and file to manipulate the tumblers inside. You had started at a random number, 222, knowing there was a good chance you’d be caught up to your elbows in broken open bank boxes and be carted off to jail, but you had to try.

The others listened intently as you were working, the small whoop you gave when you opened the first and the disappointed “damn it” when you opened it to find only someone’s old coin collection. You slammed it back into place, and moved onto the next one.

You worked for what seemed like hours, pulling out box after box of coins and cash and stamp collections and wills, pocket watches and burial plot paperwork, jewels and insurance policies. In one particularly worrisome box, you found what looked to be an ice pick with a liberal amount of dried blood, and you mentally filed away the box number for future reference, snapping it shut without touching the contents. You ran your fingers over thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of priceless items and property bonds, and all it did was serve to frustrate you further.

You barked a frantic laugh when you opened 237 and saw there, sitting atop a velvet bag probably meant to contain it, a huge pear-shaped diamond in a shade of blue that you once thought lovely but now dulled in comparison to the more beautiful shade you had seen in a certain captain’s eyes; it was the Star of Eternity, the very gem that had gotten you into this whole mess to begin with and you glared down at it before slamming the lid shut and shoving the box back where it belonged.

 

You had been about to move on to box 238 when you froze, eyes going wide with sudden realization and your breath catching in your throat.

“Oh my god,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head and staring down at your hands. “You son of a bitch. What the hell did you do to me?”

You heard Steve suddenly say your name, sharp and clear over the comm. When you didn’t respond his voice took on more concern and he called out, “What’s happening? Do you need me -- us? Do you need us in there? Say something!”

You cleared your throat and shook your head, willing your unbidden and extremely inconvenient thoughts and realizations away.

“Fine. I’m fine. It’s nothing. I’m still working. How much time do I have?” you said quickly.

“Less than eight minutes, kiddo,” Clint told you. “Time to cut your losses.”

“No!” you replied, and slammed 238 back into place. “I can get more. Two more, maybe three.” The locks were all very similar in construction and even though your fingers were aching, you had been moving faster and faster as you went along.

“Negative, Nox,” Natasha warned. “It’s cutting it too close. Meet your Mustache-Man and tell him you have to try again another day.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Natasha,” you warned in response, realizing you sounded every bit the petulant child even as you slammed 239 back where it belonged. You were sweating now, fat beads of perspiration forming on your forehead. This would have to be the last one; you knew that, even as your mind screamed at you to go for more, one more.

You opened 240 in record time and nearly cried with relief when you popped the lid. The aging yellowed paper inside was scrawled over with chemical formulas that meant nothing to you but would be dangerous in another’s hands; the blueprints beside it had faded to a dull charcoal-blue color but the ink still stood out stark and fresh, the design of a warhead meant to wreak havoc, hidden away for all this time.

“Got it,” you whispered over the comm.

You quickly folded the papers down to size, careful not to tear or damage them, and shoved them inside an inner pocket in your jacket, quickly replacing the box where it belonged and returning to your seat just as the door to the vault opened.

Jack eyed you skeptically as he opened the door. “Did you get what you needed?” he asked.

You gave him your friendliest smile, hoping he couldn’t see the sweat on your brow, or the way your hands were shaking. You had forgotten to remove your gloves and dropped your hand roll into Marla’s safe deposit box, but he didn’t seem to pay it any mind.

“Yes,” you said cheerfully, picking up the hand roll, as though it was what you had come for all along. “I believe I’m all set here.”

You stood and slid the box back into place and turned to leave.

“Good,” Jack said suddenly, and you knew he had retrieved his Glock before you even saw it; when your eyes did catch it, they narrowed at the addition of a silencer on the end of the barrel. You heaved a sigh, raising your hands in the air.

“This isn’t what it looks like…” you tried to say.

Jack nodded. “You’re right. It’s not. Now move. There’s been a change of plans. We’re going out through the service doors at the back.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise; you had thought you were about to be arrested.

“What…?” you asked slowly, taking a step back without realizing it. The communicator was practically buzzing in your ear, several voices asking what was happening; you hoped the new player on the field wouldn’t notice it.

“The boss wants to meet you face to face,” Jack told you with a ghoulish smile. “Let’s move.”

Jack ushered you down a narrow corridor and out the service doors that led into a short alley. There was a town car with tinted windows waiting and you could see Greasy Mustache sitting behind the wheel; he nodded his head at you in greeting.

“Put her in the back,” he instructed the goon, and Jack the bank guard opened the door and shoved you inside, following along and slamming the door behind him. You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips when you saw who was sitting there already, waiting for your arrival.

“ _You_!” you spat out in shock.


	39. Chapter 39

Round and bald with sweat high on his brow and a face that greatly resembled an obese bullfrog, Augustus Winslow sat in the back of the town car with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other, looking every bit the tired cliche as Greasy Mustache hit the accelerator and guided the car out into traffic.

He smiled at you, exposing straight yellow teeth. “And so we meet again,” he said, almost cheerfully. “You know, I had suspected it was you. There had been rumors that the mysterious Nox was on a first name basis with the Black Widow, after all. But I had to be certain.”

“You?” you repeated, more in disgust than shock this time. “You’re the one behind all of this? You have really got to be kidding me!”

“Do I not live up to your expectations?” Winslow sneered in response. “I drew you out, didn’t I? Made you crawl out of the woodwork and seek me out. All in all, I’d say it was quite an ingenious plan.”

You snorted and folded your arms over your chest. “You were lucky,” you replied flippantly. “I thought I was dealing with a real power broker. I don’t know that I’m comfortable doing business now.”

Jack the guard gave a surprisingly high-pitched laugh. “Like you have a choice!” he told you.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut it, you tool. You’re about as useful as a trained monkey in this situation, why don’t you button up?”

Winslow wheezed a hearty laugh, holding up a hand to stop Jack when he leaned towards you, probably ready to knock you upside the head with his gun. You had to keep the attitude up to keep some semblance of control on the situation; you had expected some foreign dignitary or a disgruntled government worker, not a self-help guru with a taste for rare diamonds.

“And the necklace? That was just happenstance?” you asked. You hadn’t really been led to it, had only heard of Winslow’s residence in the hotel while you were grabbing a drink in the lobby bar - at what had turned out to be a ridiculously bad date. 

“A fortuitous event, no doubt, but not planned,” he agreed. He held out one thick-fingered paw and when you didn’t move, you heard Jack cock his gun. With an angry sigh, you pulled the plans and formulas from your jacket and handed it over. 

“What the hell do you even want this for, Winslow? You’re a knock-off Dr. Phil, not an arms dealer,” you said, frowning. The car was moving fast now and you weren’t sure how far you’d gone; your own safety was taking a backseat. At least you could get him to speak on about his plans over the comm, so the others could hear.

“It’s a birthright,” Winslow told you, and knocked back the last of his drink. He dropped the glass into a cup holder on the far side of the car, then stubbed out his cigar against it before perusing the documents with no sense of care or preservation, not that you expected any. “My grandfather worked on this project, you see. Sadly, he developed something of a bleeding heart and decided to hide away all of this ingenious work.”

You snorted. “Ingenious, megalomaniacal, same thing these days?” you replied. Winslow ignored you and continued with his story, clearly not having seen enough Bond movies and extolling the virtues of his own genius plan.

“Control of the safe deposit box was given to one of my cousins several years ago and she just refused to open it up. Even after I had her killed, her children have kept up the payments and not even peeked inside, can you imagine?” Winslow prattled on.

“And I suppose people would have started talking if too many of your family members just started dropping dead, is that it?” you asked, rolling your eyes. You had figured Winslow to be greedy and stupid, but you hadn’t counted on actual homicidal insanity.

“Hang tight, Sticky Fingers,” Tony’s voice came over the comm in your ear. “We’ll get you out of there soon, just keep the whackjob talking.” You schooled your expression, trying to keep it as bland as possible, so Winslow didn’t know you had a voice in your ear.

“I did go through two of her children before it occurred to be it might seem suspicious,” Winslow relented, shaking his head. He tucked the plans into his suit coat and folded his hands over his expansive belly, sighing contentedly. “An overdose and a car accident, easily enough to explain away. But four healthy young adults gone in the span of a year, just after their mother died? Well even I know that would raise a few eyebrows.”

“I’d be disgusted that you could speak so cheerfully on killing members of your own family, but then you’ve already proven your taste for murder and I don’t think I could get any more disgusted with you,” you responded flatly, expression dull and unimpressed.

Winslow laughed. “Ah yes, of course, your little pawn shop friend,” he said, shaking his head. “I must admit, I did not expect him to detonate himself, not really. I’d expected he’d bow to pressure and let the SWAT team take him in. Then of course you’d swoop in to find out what had happened.”

You arched an eyebrow. “How did you know that would get my attention?”

“You’ve developed something of a reputation in recent years, dear girl,” Winslow told you, slimy grin growing as he spoke. “If nothing else, they say that Nox, whoever she is, is loyal to those she calls friends. Put one into the fire, she’ll show up to pull them out.”

You glared, as angry at Winslow as you were at yourself for taking the bait. Not as though you could have left it go, though; in spite of what some might have thought of his line of work, Benny was a good man and he hadn’t deserved to die the way he did.


	40. Chapter 40

The car was moving fast, traffic surprisingly light, and you were already off the island; Greasy had taken the Narrows bridge and was heading steadily towards Jersey.

“How did you get him involved?” you asked, trying to keep the anger out of your voice.

“It’s simply about knowing where to apply the pressure,” Winslow said with a pleased sigh, clearly quite proud of himself. “Mr. Severini was quite fond of his family, after all. Threaten the lives of those little brats of his, and he would do just about anything to keep them safe.”

You shook your head, about to say something tart and biting, when Greasy Mustache hit a pothole and sent you tipping forward, right against the cigar-reeking mass of Augustus Winslow. You grimaced, bracing both hands on his chest to push yourself back and away. 

He grinned. “If you wanted to sit a little closer, Miss Nox, you could have asked,” he said in a teasing voice.

“Yeah I think I just threw up in my mouth a little,” you replied, wrinkling your nose. “You got your goods now, Winslow, why am I still here? And where’s the cash I was promised?”

Winslow chuckled. “You _are_ the goods now, Nox. I can recover some of the cash I lost on this entire operation by ransoming you back to your do-gooder friends… and to keep them out of the bidding war that’s about to start.”

You heard a few sighs over the comm, coupled with one very emphatic fit of cursing from Steve. Probably pissed, you reasoned, that after you had lied to him and gotten yourself fully involved, he’d have to go and rescue your sorry ass. Couldn’t be helped, you supposed; you may not have wanted it to devolve to this level but you certainly didn’t want to lose your life in the endeavor.

 

“Hold on tight, kiddo,” you heard Clint over the comm. “Tony’s coming in hot, gonna shake things up for you there.”

Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, you reached behind you and wound the loose end of a seat belt around your hand and wrist, giving you something to hold onto in case things really did get ‘shaken up’. Jack narrowed his eyes at the movement and you tried to think quickly of a way to distract him when it happened.

You didn’t see the pulse from Tony’s blaster but you felt it when it hit the ground, buckling the asphalt just before the driver side front wheel hit it; the car tipped forward and you heard Greasy swear before his forehead hit the steering wheel, knocking him out cold. 

Winslow yelped as he was thrown back against the window, his head smashing against the glass and creating a web of tiny cracks spiraling out from the epicenter of where he had hit it. Jack immediately went for his gun and left off a few muted shots into the seat cushions behind you. You reacted as quick as you could, grabbing a full bottle of what looked to be brandy from the en suite bar, bringing it down quickly over his head; he slumped, eyes closed, a trickle of blood from his crown starting its slow descent down his forehead.

Turning quickly back to Winslow, you pulled your Colt from its holster and trained it on him; your breath was coming harsh and fast, your pulse pounding in your veins. The Colt had always been for protection, nothing more; you’d never had to pull it on anyone before. You’d never even had to pull the trigger outside of training yourself to use it.

Winslow put his hands up in a mock surrender. “I think we both know you’re not going to shoot me,” he told you, his slimy smile returned.

“I think the gun I have aimed at your face says different,” you responded.

“Gun?” Steve’s surprised voice came over the comm. You ignored him.

“You’re bluffing,” Winslow replied and he shrugged, lowering his hands. “I’m completely unarmed. And you’re one of the ‘good guys’ now, aren’t you? Traded sides, Nox? You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man.”

You faltered, maybe for just a second. You didn’t really want to shoot anybody. You didn’t want blood on your hands, guilty though it may be. Then you saw Jack beginning to rouse, his foot kicking out and knocking the Glock he had dropped so that it skidded across the carpeted floor of the town car and landed just beside Winslow’s foot. He glanced wildly from you to the gun, and as you heard Greasy Mustache groan and start to wake, Winslow dove for it.

He got off one shot that shattered the window behind you before you lurched forward, pressing the barrel of your Colt against the joint of his shoulder. His eyes widened and you thought first of Benny, and the two little girls who would never see their father again. Then you thought of your own fear and pain so many months ago, stumbling through the lobby at Stark Tower, praying for a miracle to save you.

“Maybe I’m not cut out to be a ‘good guy’,” you told him, and pulled your trigger.

The violence of the shot reverberated through your arm and threw you back a little in your seat; you felt suddenly exhausted and somewhat weak, watching as a bright red stain formed on Winslow’s jacket and he started crying and carrying on, blubbering like a baby. You laughed a little, feeling almost delirious; there was blood everywhere and in the back of your mind, you mildly hoped that your jacket wasn’t ruined again. 

Jack wasn’t fully awake but you held your gun on him with a shaky hand, and nearly pulled the trigger with the sudden sound of groaning, tearing metal as the door behind you was torn right off its hinges and tossed aside. Steve, still dressed casually but his eyes wide and alarmed, pulled you out quickly with two arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

The others were on the scene in a swarm, with spectators standing by to watch the fray. Tony must have suited up for the day, perhaps thinking that there was still a chance things could go badly even on a surveillance mission and there needed to be someone prepared for all possible outcomes.

Your legs gave out a little as Winslow and his henchman were pulled roughly from the car, grunting and groaning and caterwauling as they were detained, awaiting police arrival and an ambulance for the ringleader. You slumped back against Steve, who still held you around your waist, and your hand shook so badly that you couldn’t even re-holster your own gun. He took it carefully from you and tucked it into the hidden holster.

You frowned, noticing the blood on his hand.

“Steve?” you asked, confused and feeling terribly exhausted. “Did you get hurt? You’re bleeding, Sugar.”

“I’m okay,” he told you, and his voice was soft and quiet in spite of the constant din of noise around you. Tony landed in front of you both, flipping up the visor on his helmet, surveying you both for a long moment before speaking.

“Shit,” he said, and looked to Steve. “What are we doing here? You want me to take her?”

Steve nodded, carefully handing you off to Tony. You frowned at him, the metal armor of Tony’s suit feeling cold and hard against you, so different from the soft comfort of Steve’s warm chest.

“Take me where?” you asked, thinking for one wild second that they were going to drop you off at some hidden SHIELD detainment center somewhere.

Steve reached out and touched your face. “Tony’s going to bring you home,” he said quietly, then turned his gaze back to Tony. “Hurry,” he told the other man. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Sam’s on his way here, he’ll give me a lift.”

Tony nodded and you felt yourself lifted up off the ground. “Hold on tight, kid,” he told you, and took off into the air. You gasped at the coldness of the air and clung to him tightly, watching Steve’s form on the ground get smaller and smaller, until you gave in to your exhausted body and lost consciousness.


	41. Chapter 41

You sighed softly and twisted just gently in your sleep, curling yourself against Steve’s side. His arm was draped over your shoulder and you lay half-sprawled over his chest, one hand fisted in the soft steel-blue material of his t-shirt. You made a small noise of wakefulness and Steve answered with a quiet “Hmm?”, reaching to brush your hair out of your face. When you opened your eyes, you could see that he had been watching you.

“What time is it?” you asked in a sleepy mumble, ducking your head to rub at your eyes without letting go of his shirt.

“A little past two in the morning,” Steve told you mildly, still running his fingers through your hair.

With your vision clearing, you could see what you were in his bedroom. Only a dim bedside lamp lit the room, and there was a book open, facedown on the mattress beside him; you smiled, realizing it was a print of Good Omens you had left there for him.

You stretched against him and winced, feeling a sharp pain in your lower back. You frowned and Steve kissed your temple.

“Careful, doll. Still got stitches, you don’t need to be tearin’em open already,” he warned you gently.

You sat up quickly and your frown grew deeper, as you suddenly found yourself very confused. 

“What happened?” you asked him. Looking down you realized that you were in a pair of your flannel sleep shorts and a loose tank top, not the clothes you had left in that morning. “Where are my clothes?”

Steve sighed softly and sat up, rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn. “Sorry,” he told you. “I thought you’d sleep through the night. Your clothes were mostly ruined, too much blood. Nat said you wouldn’t care if we tossed them out. We kept your jacket, though. It’s gonna need a lot of work but you can probably save it.”

His yawn was contagious and you heaved one yourself before offering him a smile. “Thanks for that,” you said, voice full of relief that your totem hadn’t been lost. “It’s kind of a good luck charm.”

Steve snorted, but good-naturedly. “Tell you what,” he told you, slipping his arm back over your shoulders. “We’ll find you a patch or somethin’ with a shamrock on it, and we can sew that on over the bullet hole, okay?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the lateness of the hour and the stillness of the room leading you to keep your voice low and the tone quiet. You leaned into his embrace, digging your toes into the soft mattress, and closed your eyes. For the briefest moment you had perfect calm and peace, until your eyes suddenly flew open.

“I was shot!” you said suddenly, hands flying to your lower back. You could feel a bandage beneath your shirt and when you rolled it up in the back, you ran your fingers over a remarkably small strip of gauze.

“You were. Again,” Steve agreed, and pressed a soft kiss to your jaw. He moved slow and languid, reminding you suddenly of a sleepy cat roused from a nap in the sun. The thought made you smile, in spite of the circumstance.

“I don’t understand,” you said, and shook your head. “Shouldn’t I be in the med bay? Or… or monitored, or something…?”

“You were,” Steve offered slowly. “And now you’re here. They said you’d be okay if I moved you, and I didn’t want you to wake up there again. Thought you’d prefer someplace more… familiar.”

Steve looked as though he were holding something back for a long moment, biting his lower lip before he sighed. He closed his free hand over one of yours, rubbing against the side of your wrist with his thumb, and a flash of memory came to you.

The bright lights of the med bay. The scent of sterile alcohol in the air. You were cold, so very cold, shaking hard on the gurney and Steve was there, holding tight to your hand. He was rubbing his thumb along your wrist, his expression stricken and worried.

There was blood. So much blood.

“You hang on,” he was telling you, smudges of blood on his pale face. Your blood, not his. “You hang on babydoll, hang on for me, please…”

You sucked in a sharp breath as the memory changed, much softer now, hazy as though you had faded too much for it to become concrete. You were still on the gurney but there was Steve, laying next to you on another they had sidled up right next to yours. There were tubes everywhere, and you were still so cold, buried beneath a pile of blankets and still shivering. He grasped your hand in his, and you could see the needle in his arm.

His eyes never left your face. “Whatever you need, it’s yours. Just please stay with me,” he had breathed.

 

You looked back at him in surprise, hand reaching to touch where the transfusion needle had been on your own arm and finding nothing but a faint, faded pinprick that could have easily been a freckle or an ancient scar.

“It’s really intimate, I know,” Steve told you, blushing and sounding almost apologetic. “But Bruce did a quick type-test and you have a kinda rare blood type… no one was a match and me, I’m O-negative and Bruce said I was the best bet for a donor… you’d lost a lot of blood, the bullet nicked a renal artery or something, and I…”

“Are you… are you apologizing for saving my life?” you asked, incredulous. “You gave me your blood? The _literal blood from your veins_ , and you’d apologize for that?”

Steve gave a slow roll of his shoulders. “Some people wouldn’t be happy. My blood comes with a lot of baggage. Bruce and Tony don’t think it’ll be a lasting effect, maybe eight weeks or so? But… you healed up a lot faster than you would otherwise. You were out for most of the day it happened and all of today.” He let out a slow, shaky exhale. “Jesus, babydoll, you scared the hell outta me, you know that?”

You started to laugh and cry all at one, ignoring the nagging pain in your back as you threw your arms around him, squeezing him tight against yourself, never wanting to let go. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words tumbling of your mouth over and over in a constant stream you couldn’t seem to stop, only to pause with presses of your lips to his skin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For his part Steve laughed, held you tighter. “JARVIS already made your apologies for you when I walked in the door,” he told you, shaking his head. “Not that it’s all on you. I should have listened to you, trusted you. Maybe if I’d had your back, you wouldn’t have taken another bullet.”

“But it worked anyway, right?” you said, tears still streaming down your face. You couldn’t stop them; you didn’t want to. You felt a strange jumble of emotions, elation at being alive, awe at what Steve had done to save you... it was overwhelming. “You got him? Winslow, the police took him, didn’t they?”

Steve’s expression fell. “We didn’t,” he told you, rubbing your back as he watched you frown. “It wasn’t a sanctioned mission so we had nothing backing up what we were saying… the cops didn’t want to get involved and cause ‘an incident’ cos he started yelling that he was going to sue. He left, with his driver. They took in the guard from the bank for discharging a weapon, but that’s it. We didn’t want to tell them you’d been hurt, get you involved. We’ve got nothing.”

You sighed, and sat back against his thighs. “At least we have the plans,” you said. “That’s the most important part, right?”

His head dropped. “He still had them. Made this big show of patting his pocket to remind us, too.”

You started to laugh again and Steve looked up, confused. You buried your face in his shoulder to try and gain your composure, shuddering with the chuckles that kept bubbling up out of your chest without your permission. It was perfect - it was just too perfect.

Steve said your name and when you didn’t answer, he pinched your thigh just gently to get your attention. “I think I’m missing the joke here,” he said slowly.

“You didn’t check my jacket, did you?” you asked him, cocking your head to the side with a smile. “You really think I’d let that jackass walk away with those plans, after everything I did to get them? After everything I was giving up to make sure he didn’t get his paws on them?”

“You have them?” Steve asked mystified.

You bit your lip and nodded. “They’re in the front inner pocket of my jacket. I had a couple pamphlets from the bank with me, made the swap when the car lurched and I fell against the creep. He didn’t feel a thing.”

Steve stared at you, incredulous. Taking you face in his hands, he whispered, “You really are something else,” and kissed you with the gentlest touch. “You weren’t giving up a thing. You really think I’d give up on you so easy?”

You grinned and blushed, ducking your face into his shoulder. “I thought you’d hate me,” you said, running your fingertips down his chest, your tone going somber. “I was leaving here and I thought it would be for good.”

“You’re pretty much stuck with me now,” Steve told you, and flopped himself back onto the mattress with his arms wrapped around you, drawing out a long laugh from you as you fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1-2 more chapters on this before it's done, I think :)


	42. Chapter 42

You slept soundly, long and deep, wrapped around Steve and refusing to let go. It was a dreamless sleep, your mind as tired as your body after the long days and the injury you’d had, too overwrought to paint any dreamscapes across your mind while you slept. You knew there was still much to talk about but felt secure in knowing that Steve didn’t want you gone; that was a blessing in itself, and enough to put your mind at ease, at least for the night.

When you work to morning light, you felt fine; better than usual, even. Energized in a way you rarely were upon waking. And when you showered, Steve noted that your wound had healed completely. He had insisted on joining you under the warm spray and you saw no problem with his company; as good as you felt, there was a sense of safety in having him near when you were vulnerable and comfort knowing that he still wanted to be there. 

He seemed hesitant to leave you, walking you to Bruce’s lab to see if the physicist wouldn’t mind handling the stitches that needed to be removed from your lower back. You’d felt a spike of panic when Steve had mentioned visiting the med bay; your recent memories there were patchy at best, but frightening. You understood how close you were to losing it all, and you weren’t ready to confront that just yet. 

“Glad to see you up and around,” Bruce greeted you, agreeing without question to handle the stitches for you.

He had a well-stocked first aid kit on hand, owing to the number of mishaps that tended to crop up whenever he and Tony put their heads together, and had you stretch out on a lab table on your stomach. Steve pulled a rolling stool up beside the table and parked himself alongside you.

“It looks like the skin has completely healed around the sutures,” Bruce told you, swabbing the area over with an alcohol pad. “This may sting a little.”

You snorted, folding your hands underneath your chin. “At this point, I think I can take it,” you told him dryly, but still flinched when he snipped a strand of the silk suture and used a pair of tweezers to pluck it from your skin.

Steve reached over and pushed your hair out of your eyes, keeping his gaze trained on yours.

“Feel like getting dinner tonight?” he offered, trying to distract you. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve never taking you for a proper night out.”

“I don’t know if I’m up for braving the public just yet,” you told him with an honest sigh. “The fangirls tend to flock to you, Sugar. Don’t know I can handle sharing you with the crowd.”

Steve flushed, a small smile on his face that you knew came from the possessive note to your voice and not the idea of his typical crowd of lovesick fangirls.

“Maybe we can have a night in, then,” Steve said, and let his fingers brush down along your jawline. “I can make you dinner, how’s that sound? Just you an’ me.”

You tilted your face into his touch, preening under the attention. “That I am definitely up for,” you told him with a pleased sigh.

“Sorry to interrupt, but we’re all finished here,” Bruce cut in, dropping his tweezers onto a nearby tray. The counter was littered with small pieces of the suture thread, and packaging from the used alcohol swabs. “I don’t think we even need to re-bandage it, Nox. You’d better check with the med bay first, but I think you might be cleared to resume normal activity.”

“Huh. That was quick,” you muttered, glancing over your shoulder at him. Turning back to Steve, you arched an eyebrow and smiled. “This that baggage you were talking about?”

He laughed softly. “Something like that.” Steve stood and extended a hand to you. “Why don’t get get out of Bruce’s hair? Get a cup of coffee. Think maybe we have a few things we should talk about.”

Your smile faded and you nodded, sitting up and sliding off of the lab table. You glanced over your shoulder and smiled at Bruce. “Thanks,” you called warmly.

He returned a friendly smile. “Not a problem,” he told you in reply.

 

You had expected this was coming. Steve explained as gently as he could over a cup of coffee in the communal kitchen that there would be a debriefing; they needed to know how everything happened, how it all went down, stemming back to your very first inkling that something was wrong.

You were nervous. He could tell.

“It’s nothing like you’re thinking,” Steve told you, reaching across the table and covering your hands with his own. “It’s not any kind of interrogation or anything.”

You gave a brief, nervous smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time, if it was,” you offered, hoping for a laugh. It only further furrowed his brow, and he shook his head as if to dispel the thought from your head. 

“The more information you have, the more likely it is we can get this Winslow guy brought up on some charges,” Steve explained. “It’s not that we don’t trust you. You have to know that.”

You gave another weak smile, already wondering if you’d check into a hotel in the city or just catch a flight somewhere entirely new that night, after it was all over. Maybe someplace warm. New York in the winter would be hard without a warm body beside you to hold onto, especially after everything that had happened.

“Of course I do,” you lied.

 

They elected to speak with you in the common lounge, and you suspected the move was made for your own comfort more than anything else. You had already been agitated at the thought of being stared down across the table in one of the many conference rooms in the Tower, and were grateful at least that you’d be in a less disagreeable setting.

Clint nearly tackled you into a hug as you walked in the door and you laughed a little, stumbling a few steps backward with the force of his embrace. You felt a little guilty for not having sought him or Natasha out once you had woken and gotten back on your feet, but you had felt you needed more quiet time to process all that had gone, glad to have spent most of those hours alone with Steve. 

“Oof,” you mumbled, a rush of air forced from your lungs with the impact. “Careful there, big guy. I still need to breathe, you know.”

Clint pulled away just enough to frown at you. “You could have let us know you were okay,” he accused. 

Sitting nearby on a couch, legs tucked up beneath her, Natasha hummed in agreement. She held a mug of tea in her hand and lifted the bag by the string, swirling it around the hot liquid in the cup.

“It would have been nice to know that you hadn’t bled out on the table in med bay,” she agreed, eyes still on the steaming mug in her hand.

You sighed, carefully extracting yourself from Clint’s embrace. “I’m sorry, kotyonok,” you told her, stepping further into the room and taking a seat beside her on the couch. Steve had quietly drifted in as well, and sat on the arm of the couch beside Natasha, watching the exchange curiously. “It’s been kind of a rough day, honestly. Still getting my bearings. I promise the next time I almost die, I will alert you and Clint about my not shuffling off this mortal coil, before I tell anyone else.”

Natasha’s lips quirked into a small smile. “You had better,” she replied, and took a sip of her tea.

The room quieted as Tony entered, seemingly taking point on the whole situation; you were surprised, to some degree, at how serious he was on the matter. No jokes, no witty banter… it was sobering to see, leaving your nerves twitching. He did offer you a small smile before nodding at you and asking you to speak.

You told them everything, every last detail, beginning with your first encounter with Winslow’s security team -- the armed guards making so much more sense, now that you knew what you knew -- and ending with Steve pulling you out of the town car.

You told them about Benny, how you had known him for years, how uncharacteristic it had been for him to pull anything like a bank job. You told them about Nina and the little girls, and how Winslow had levied their lives for Benny’s complicity, all to draw you out into the open.

You told them about the research you had done, adding up all of the attempts at robbery at that specific bank, how exorbitant it seemed. 

You explained the decisions you had made, and why you had made them. You told them about the burglary at the Synclaire, how Marla Digby fit into the equation, and why you felt you couldn’t tell them. Any of them.

About why you had to intervene in their surveillance, and start the chain of events that led to you being trapped in the back of a speeding towncar with Augustus Winslow and his bodyguard.

“That was a poor decision to make,” Natasha spoke up quietly. “You don’t go into something like this without a backup, without an escape plan. You could have died, ptichka.”

“Me or the thousands of people who’d have been at ground zero, once whoever bought those plans got to work,” you replied, shaking your head. “That’s a pretty easy decision to make.”

Bruce, who had been watching the entire exchange without commenting, sighed at your words. “It’s too bad that it didn’t work out like you planned,” he said, the weight of his words clearly weighing down on his shoulders. “I hate to think of that kind of information out there, still in the wrong hands.”

You threw a questioning glance towards Steve, who smiled a little and nodded at you. Apparently, he felt that it was still your story to tell; he must not have told them that you’d liberated the plans from Winslow’s suit coat during the tumultuous ride in the town car.

“I guess mine aren’t really the ‘right’ hands for the job,” you said, standing up to pull the folded papers from where you had tucked them into your back pocket that morning. You had retrieved them to show Steve, and he suggested you bring them along; it seemed he had an idea of when you might turn them over.

Bruce’s eyes went wide, spying the aging paper in your hands. “Is that…?” he asked.

“I’m a thief,” you reminded him, walking over with the paperwork in hand. “I guess I get a little overzealous sometimes, pick a pocket now and again. He didn’t feel a thing.”

You knew there had been discussion about what would be done with the information, once the team had it in hand. You knew there had been disagreement as well; Steve had seemed hesitant to keep the entire operation under wraps, away from the prying eyes of the government. Bruce had been adamant that such subterfuge was the only way to go.

With the information resting in your hands, you had already decided what needed to be done.

You crossed the room and held the paperwork out to Bruce. “This is the only copy that we know of,” you told him as he gingerly took the plans from you. “Anything happens to it, and the information will be lost.”


	43. Chapter 43

It was a lovely bonfire.

You weren’t entirely sure where Tony had scrounged up a freestanding hibachi grill of that size, but he directed Steve and Bucky as they guided it through the swinging glass doors and out onto the balcony outside of the common lounge. The sun had been sinking in the sky by then, streaks of bright orange and yellow fading against the blue of twilight. 

They had gone over the plans meticulously, Tony and Bruce, muttering back and forth about formulas and equations and propulsions. The bomb would work, they concluded; the science was grounded, the math added up. If someone were to attempt to build a Carthage Bomb, they could level a major city in a matter of hours.

Bruce had visibly paled at the realization. “Christ,” he muttered, running a hand through his already tousled dark hair. “What would possess someone to create something like this? It’s… it’s just…”

“Evil,” Natasha supplied, expression remaining mild. No one questioned her on the proclamation -- after all, she would know.

Clint wore his disgust openly. “Why would someone want to do that kinda damage?” he asked.

“Let’s never find out,” Steve responded, and held out a hand to Bruce, a slim silver lighter held aloft in his fingers. It was a peace offering, you understood: a gesture to erase the arguments they’d had, a way for Steve to admit that Bruce had been right and the plans for the Carthage Bomb should never again see the light of day. Bruce took it from him with a nod.

Tony clapped his hands together and smiled. “Let’s light it up!” he announced.

 

That was how you found yourself warming your hands over a grill-bed of charcoal and the aged plans for a world-ending munitions project, Steve standing just behind you, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, watching the flames.

“I wonder how long before Winslow realizes the plans are missing,” Natasha mused; she looked stunning, bathed in the glow of the fire, red hair bright as the embers in the pyre. “If he hasn’t already.”

You snorted. “I wonder how long before he sends the cops my way,” you responded bitterly. At the end of the day, you knew you still had much to worry about. Winslow may not have gotten the plans he had been after, but he still knew where you were. And he had to be angry.

“Funny thing about that,” Clint drawled, casting a smile your way. “Heard everybody thought the guy was half out of his mind when his driver rolled him up to an ER to get that shoulder looked at. Rambling about some thief he only knew by an alias, somebody Interpol won’t even confirm really exists.”

“Babbling that he got shot by some fairy tale,” Bucky added with a short chuckle. “Sayin’ he could describe this pretty girl to a T and everyone thinkin’ he’s either crazy or lyin’ to cover his own bad behavior, gettin’ himself all mixed up with a bank guard gone rogue and takin’ a few bullets in the process.”

“The Post is reporting it as an attempt at insurance fraud,” Tony spoke up. “Seem to think he was trying to pull a heist on his own safe deposit box, so he could claim the insurance on that rock he picked up for his wife. Figuring the first time it was stolen was just another attempt at the fraud and he got cold feet and claimed it had suddenly been returned.”

You could barely believe it, gaping at them as you studied each smiling face. Behind you, Steve gave your arms a gentle squeeze and ducked his head to brush his lips across your cheek.

“So I wouldn’t be worried about him showing up at our door any time soon,” he added.

 

He’d promised you dinner, and Steve wasn’t about to welch on that. You followed him mutely back to his suite, throat a little dry and stomach a little twisted, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was nice to know you wouldn’t have to worry about Augustus Winslow any time soon, but that surely wouldn’t alleviate all of your fears.

You had laid everything out in the open. Steve knew that you had lied, that you had snuck around behind his back, slipped out of his bed in the middle of the night to play cat burglar in an upscale hotel suite. He had the full picture now, knew everything you were capable of, and then some.

He knew you had shot a man in cold blood, making the split second decision to press the muzzle of your gun against Winslow’s shoulder and pull the trigger. Certainly, even if he could ignore the rest, that was one trespass that Steve Rogers would not abide.

 

You helped him in the kitchen. You were both quiet, what little you spoke back and forth having more to do with the meal you were making than everything hanging over your heads. You realized with a small smile that when Steve bothered to cook, he made poor food -- the kind of recipes your grandmother had passed down, rich and hearty but very thrifty, cooked mostly from cans and dry good cartons. 

Dinner was a dish of pasta and beans and a scant amount of meat, paired with fresh bread and butter; it filled you up, warmed you from the inside out, and the smile in Steve’s eyes as he dug in had you all but certain it was something he remembered from his youth. That he had shared it with you -- this meal, this memory -- had set those old butterflies fluttering about again.

You would miss this. So terribly much.

You washed dishes side by side; Steve never used the dishwasher, thought it useless when there so little to wash up, a few plates, a pan, some glasses, coffee mugs. Not enough to fill a dishwasher and too much to let it sit. His fingers kept slipping over yours as he handed up warm rinsed dishes to towel off and he’d smile; you’d smile back, charmed by the domesticity even if it wasn’t made to last.

It was late by the time you both retired to the sofa, and he held his arm out for you to slip beside him, curled against his warmth even as the chill of the late evening seeped in.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. 

“Hmm?” you replied. You’d been making mental checklists: what to take, what to leave. If you should wait until he fell asleep or make a clean break at the door. Those butterflies had spun low, twisting and tumbling and making you queasy.

“Seems like you got something on your mind,” Steve said mildly. He was so calm, spoke so evenly, that it seemed to make this all the more difficult. You sighed and sat up, pulling yourself from the warmth of his embrace.

You leaned forward, crossing your arms over your chest. “You know this can’t last, Steve,” you said a quiet sigh. Steve didn’t respond for a moment, then heaved a sigh of his own that sounded suspiciously like your name. 

“No,” he told you, and leaned forward, mimicking your position. “I don’t know what. Why do you think that? _How_ can you think that?”

“I’m not cut out for this life, Steve,” you said, and swiped the back of your hand across your eyes. You weren’t going to cry. You weren’t. “We’re too different.”

“That’s a cop-out if I ever heard one,” Steve grumbled good-naturedly. “You certainly seemed to handle yourself pretty good out there, babydoll. Wouldn’t say you weren’t cut out for it.”

“I was shot! Again!” you responded, turning to stare at him with wide eyes. “I could have died!”

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” Steve replied. He reached out and brushed your hair out of your eyes. “You only got hurt cos I was too stubborn to listen to you, or Tony.”

You frowned. “Tony?” you asked. “Where does he enter into it?”

Steve sighed and collapsed back against the sofa. “Tony said that you should be involved from the get-go. He figured you’d have contacts who could help, or run point if we had to break in somewhere. I just wanted to keep you safe.”

You stood up, throwing your hands in the air. “That’s just it, though!” you cried out. “Steve, I’ll never be safe. I’m not a hero. I’m a thief, remember?”

“You don’t have to be,” he pointed out. It was irritating, how calm he stayed. You wanted him to get angry, to yell at you. To make it easier to walk away.

“It’s what I am,” you told him, a challenge in your voice. “It’s _who_ I am. I’m not going to change everything about myself just because you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Steve replied, shaking his head. “I just want you.”

That made you crumble, your butterflies whipping into a frenzy as you sunk back onto the couch, your face in your hands. It couldn’t be this easy. It couldn’t.

“I’m a thief,” you repeated quietly. “You… you’re too good, Steve, my god. You’re a hero. I’m on the wrong side of that line.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’ve broken into museums,” you countered. “I’ve made forgeries and replaced priceless paintings, just to see if I could get away with it.”

Steve quirked a small smile. “I didn’t know you could paint.”

You snorted. “What else am I going to do with a fine arts degree?”

His little smile became a full-on grin. “Really?” he asked. “I used to sketch. Been thinkin’ of taking it up again, actually.”

You groaned. “Focus, Steve!” you told him. He looked so god damn cute; it was getting difficult to keep fighting, to keep rationalizing leaving. “There is a reward for any information leading to my arrest in four different countries.”

“There is a reward for any information leading to the arrest of the thief known as Nox in four different countries,” Steve corrected, and slid his arms around your waist. “Who Interpol and a dozen other security agencies are not sure is the same person for every theft and refuse to confirm exists.”

“I shot Winslow.”

“He deserved it. Worse than that. He would have killed you, you know that.”

“You’re Captain-freakin’-America,” you groaned, settling a little too easily into his lap as he pulled you in. “You can’t be serious about this. You can’t date someone like me, you can’t…”

“Love you?” he offered, and you groaned again, dropping your face into the crook of his neck. “I love you,” he said again, voice so soft and so sweet to your ear, and you were lost.

 

He stood so easily, his arms supporting your backside and creeping up the back of your shirt as he carried you off, bringing you back to the bed you had been sharing for months. He wouldn’t let up, whispering the words over and over again as he touched you, drawing out every gasp and groan he could and answering them back until you couldn’t speak, couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t do a thing but grasp at his shoulders and arch your back against the mattress.

He held you close eve after it was over, pulling you onto his chest as he settled on his back.

“What were you talking about, in the vault?” Steve asked suddenly, and you chuckled.

“Not quite the pillow talk I was expecting,” you told him, still dizzy with the comedown. You had misgivings, there was no way to get around that, but something in his touch always seemed to calm you and you couldn’t rile yourself up like you had earlier in the evening.

“I thought you were in trouble,” Steve admitted with a soft laugh. “Almost went barreling in, not going to lie. Nat kept me back.”

You giggled a little, and pressed your face into his chest. “My hero,” you said dryly.

“So who was it? You were talking to someone,” he pressed, walking his fingers across your bare arm and drawing goosebumps in his wake.

“Steve…” you warned, your face flushing hot against him. You knew exactly what he was talking about, the words that had tumbled from your lips unbidden, broadcast for all of them to hear.

“Called somebody a son of a bitch,” Steve went on, and let his fingers drift to your ribs, where he knew you were a little ticklish. You shivered at his touch. “Said ‘what did you do to me?’,” he went on. “Now what was that all about?”

You sighed and pulled back a little, looked up to see his eyes watching you in the moonlight drifting in from the windows.

“Do you know what I found in there?” you asked him, shaking your head. “It was a goldmine, Steve. There was actual gold. And coins. And cash, and bonds, high priced stamps, and what I’m almost positive was an actual Warhol sketch. And gems, Steve. Cut gems, uncut gems, jewelry, and that damn diamond. The Star of Eternity. All of it, right there at my fingertips.”

“And you left it all behind,” Steve filled in. You looked away, fully aware he was smiling at you.

“And I left it. I couldn’t touch any of it,” you said, shaking your head at your own actions. It had been a fortune, a literal fortune right there for the taking, and you couldn’t bring yourself to take even a small stone or an errant coin.

“And why’s that?” Steve asked, fingertips dancing down your bare back. “Tell me, babydoll. What got you so upset that you couldn’t fill your pockets up with cash and jewels?”

You turned and glared at him. “You, you jerk!” you said, shoving against his chest and knowing it wouldn’t even hurt. “I just threw it right back in every damn box because I didn’t want to make you any more disappointed in me than you already would be!”

Steve grinned at you. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because I love you, damn it!” you spat out, disgusted with him, disgusted with yourself, and so damn happy that your heart felt fit to burst.

“I knew it!” Steve crowed, arms back around your waist as he pulled you back down to him, peppering small kisses everywhere he could reach his lips and whispering it over and over again, “I knew it, I knew you loved me, I knew it!”

You sighed and let yourself relax against him. “Don’t sound so cheerful,” you mumbled. “The love of somebody like me comes with a lot of baggage.”

“Same here,” Steve told you, that stupid grin still dancing across his features. “So we’ll call it a matched set.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, burying your face against his chest again. “God knows I could use a trip after this week,” you grumbled, and nipped at his skin to get your point across.

“Me too,” Steve agreed with a sigh, carding his fingers through your hair. “Let’s take a drive, you an’ me. Get away for a while.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, lifting your head in surprise. “And where would we go?”

“Well, a while back I came across this little cabin in the middle of nowhere,” Steve told you softly, and you started at him with wide, startled eyes. “Turned out it was for sale, can you believe it? Couldn’t let it get away from me.”

Your jaw dropped. “Did you really…?”

Steve nodded. “Knew the second we got there that it would someplace special. That I’d be wanting to take you back again.”

You laughed, bright and airy and wonderful, straddling his hips so you could hold his face in your hands and kiss him long and slow and deep.

“I love you,” he said in a quiet voice when you pulled away, his hands stroking up your back, always seeking bare skin, always touching.

You smiled down at him, shaking your head in a mixture of wonderment and disbelief. “You know what, Sugar?” you said. “You really are something else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I don't think I've ever written so much on one project in so little a span of time before. Thanks for sticking with me, guys! <3
> 
> Feel free to follow me on [Tumblr](http://literatec.tumblr.com), if you wish.


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